Protect and Serve
by Raine Viole
Summary: Detective Lillian Truscott was trained, and prepared for anything. But nothing in the world could prepare her for this. AU, Liley. Rating changed for language/violence.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Protect and Serve  
Summary: The Marines train only the very best. They are prepared for anything, ready to fight, ready to win. But with Detective Lillian Truscott falls for the woman she must help, she realizes that no training can prepare you for love. And that sometimes, love is even more dangerous than the world she helps protect.  
Rating: Tame, for now.  
Author's Note: I've been toying with this idea for a while now. I hope you guys like it. I promise more interaction soon! Review if you please!

Hard rain pounded against my windshield, briefly obscuring my vision. Summer storms, in all their warm and inconvenient glory, always made me jittery. My grip tightened on the steering wheel, my knuckles a bright white. I had taken this route so often -- every day for the past four years -- and I knew every tree, every road sign, every bounce and pothole in the road so the obstruction was not my problem. That sound -- that hard, pounding rain and the bellowing rolls of thunder...that's what got to me. I snuck a glance at myself in the rearview mirror, grimacing at the sight before me. Hair haphazardly combed, two light magenta rings underneath both my eyes; I looked like shit on crack.

I had just come off pulling a double down at the station. We had four domestic violence calls within my first shift. The next twelve hours I had spent directing traffic, answering four separate 911 calls, and instructing young children on the dangers of drug use. Working for the LA County Sheriff's Department was a truly bittersweet job. It was bitter because I had spent three years serving time as a Corporal for the US Marine Corps in Afghanistan, what my fireteam called, "the forgotten warzone." Iraq may have its suicide bombers, and insurgents, but Afghanistan...there would be nothing for miles. Then suddenly, out of nowhere --

Thunder rolled again, lightning lighting up the dark night sky as bright as Times Square. I shuddered, squeezing my eyes shut for just a brief moment to push the flashback I was having out of my head. With a firm shake of my head, I rolled down my window a crack to allow some ventilation from the outside to circulate within my sedan. My disturbing memories dissipated for the moment, and I remembered my current occupation with more clarity. So while I was bitter because part of me missed my team, the smarter, less fatalistic part of me enjoyed being able to truly help our society, one case at a time.

Just a few exits before mine, my eyes darted to the side of the road. Coming up in front of me, nearly blotted out by the wide, hard droplets pelting the Earth, were the blinking lights of someone's hazards. The sight before me was just that...some sight. A drenched young woman, standing hopelessly in the rain. Her cell phone was flipped open, but by the way she was shaking it, I could tell her service was shot. I stepped out of my car, wincing as the hard rain droplets fell against my scalp. I was going to need one hell of a shower tonight.

"What seems to be the problem?" I asked, my voice rather authoritative. The woman turned to me, shoving her cell phone into her purse. She looked...vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place how I recognized her face.

"There wouldn't be if I didn't have the world's suckiest cell phone provider," she griped, her eyes narrowing in my direction. Even through the sheets of rain, I could feel her judgment upon me. Seeing as how I was in plain clothes, just a pair of old jeans and a Strokes T-shirt, and she was wearing what seemed like they used to be expensive wear, before the rain had its way with the fabrics. "Do you have a cell phone?"

A smirked and walked towards her and the car, inspecting it. Her rear back tire seemed to be flat. I furrowed my brows and looked to her. "Is this the only problem? You have a flat?" I was a little incredulous, I will admit. How people are allowed to function and drive vehicles without learning how to properly change a tire is beyond me. I have seen normal people fix tanks the size of small houses, but for some reason, there's a good percentage of this country that cannot change a tire, and for that, I am deeply shamed.

She nodded. "Stupid thing just went flat on my way ..." she stopped mid-sentence, narrowing her eyes in critique once more. "Who are you?"

Not one to easily trust, I thought to myself. I dug into my back jean pocket and produced my badge. "Detective Lillian Truscott, Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department." I slid the badge back into my left pocket, metal exposed. This woman still had the audacity to size me up, her eyes analyzing me from head to toe. I shook my head, running my fingers through my increasingly soaked hair. "And you are?"

She looked visibly surprised. Shaking her head a moment, she sighed. "I'm Miley Stewart." Her arms were crossed over her chest, protectively. Her entire nature seemed protective, I noticed. Her body language was closed off, her words short and curt. In fact, I don't think unless I had introduced myself a a cop, she would've even told me her name. I waited for her to explain her situation, but she didn't.

I let out a loud, frustrated sigh. "Well, Miss Stewart, the way I see it, you have two options." I waited for a response, and when one didn't come, I continued. "You can either get back in your car, I can call dispatch and get someone out here, or you can drop the 'tude and I'll change this for you. As a side note? The first option will take at least an hour. Your flat tire is not on the station's top priority list."

My obvious annoyance and demeaning tone must have struck a note with her, as her eyes changed from scrutinizing to apologetic. "I'm sorry," she finally said. Her voice, thick with a Southern drawl she must have tried hard to get rid of, finally sounded sincere. "I've just...I've had a really long day, Detective, and I so did not need this right now." Her shoulders feel forward slightly, and I was muted by her despondence. I'm not one to gloat. Much.

I nodded, and without a word I went around to her driver's side, my Nike sneakers squishing against the pavement. I opened her truck latch, jerked her emergency brake into park, and went around to retrieve the donut from the bottom of her trunk. Black shirt pressed to my skin, I heaved the large wheel from the trunk. As I was grabbing the jack and wrench, I watched as a large black car slowed down, more than curious as to the situation. Another blast of lightning lit up the sky, the car sped away.

With a shrug I brought all the materials to the side of the car. I placed the jack in the small slot next to the tire, then began to remove her lug nuts from the tire. Her eyes were narrowed, intently watching my movements. "Is there someone you need to call? Will someone be looking for you?"

Miley nodded. "My mana--um, my dad," Miley quickly covered, biting her lower lip. "He's gonna wonder what's taking me so long. Probably really worried."

Rain was collecting in my eyebrows and pouring into my eyes, and I wiped it away every so often with my forearm. "On my driver's seat is a walkie talkie. Can you grab it for me?" Miley nodded dutifully as I continued my slow work on her tire. Once all five lug nuts were off, I began to pump the jack upwards. Once I had it safely in the air, I shimmied off the offending tire. Something was off. As I inspected the rubber piece, I noticed there were no holes. In fact, the whole thing seemed brand new.

Miley crouched next to me, nearly hovering over my shoulder. I gulped, nervous at the close contact. Something about this woman unnerved me. It was like knowing you're going to sneeze just as you open the top of your coffee. "Dispatch this is Detective Truscott, 13645. Do you copy?"

After a few moments of silence, dispatch crackled through. "This is Amber, how can I help you, Detective?"

Before I pressed the talk button, I looked to Miley. Her bright, green eyes were burning holes into my retina, and I had to wipe moisture from my eyes to take a break from her stare. "What's your father's name and number?"

"Robbie Ray Stewart, 818-555-7893" Miley answered.

"Hey, Amber. I've got a stranded pedestrian here, and I'm fixing her tire. I need you to call a Robbie Ray Stewart at 818," I paused, "555-7893. Tell him his daughter, Miley, is fine and she'll be on her way in fifteen minutes."

Another brief moment of silence fell before Amber broke through again, "Copy that, Lilly." I cringed as Amber used my nickname. I could feel Miley smirk from her position crouched next to me. "We'll get that call out."

"Copy, over," I replied, placing the walkie talkie down onto the gravel. My attention turned back to Miley's tire, inspecting the damage. "You said it just went flat?"

Miley nodded. "I was driving --"

"How fast?"

Miley blushed. Her cheeks flushed a light crimson, and I couldn't help but smile. "..Not too fast."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not gonna arrest you, Miss Stewart. I'm off-duty anyway. How fast?"

"About seventy-five, probably, when I realized the car was careening!" Miley yelled, almost knocking me off my feet. "My car started to swerve, so I pulled over. I was here only a couple of minutes before you showed up."

I nodded, my fingers tracing the tire. Suddenly, it dawned on me what looked out of place. Someone had, intentionally or otherwise, unscrewed Miley's cap on her air valve. The air had slowly seeped out of the tire for miles. "Here's your problem, Miss Stewart. Someone unscrewed your air valve. I don't know for how long, but your tire has been releasing air."

Miley's emerald hues went wide, and while she was inspecting it, I finally got to truly look at her. She was absolutely stunning. Not that it was uncommon in LA to find someone with movie-star good looks, but Miley was astounding. Dark, chestnut colored hair, a light tan to her skin, eyes greener that should be legal, and the fullest, most tantalizing lips I had ever been so close to.

Embarrassingly, I had been staring at her lips when she looked back at me. It wasn't until I saw them form the ghost of a smirk before I looked upwards. "Who could've done this?" Miley asked as I began to put on her spare.

I shrugged. "Pretty much anyone. I mean, any time you park your car and leave it, it's vulnerable. Auto theft is one of the largest crimes we get reported. We've got a whole bureau dedicated to it."

Miley shook her head. "Okay, but who would've wanted to do this to _me,_" she emphasized. That was a valid point. Unscrewing someone's air valve was not only dangerous, but also very manipulative. Obviously, someone either wanted to hurt Miley, or at least get her alone.

"I can take your tire down to the station if you want them to get forensics to look at it, but I don't think much would be found. The rain would've washed away any DNA or prints the perp would've left." I had started to talk to Miley, but then I simply talked to myself. "I mean, to see how far you went before you lost all the air, we'd have to take your car."

Miley shook her head. "It's fine," she said, her tone aloof and dismissive. She stood, and I followed, tossing the wrench and jack into her trunk, shutting it firmly. "I'm sure it was just an accident."

I narrowed my eyes. Something about this seemed awfully contrived. Miley stepped closer to me, and I felt some heat despite the cold relentless rain between us. "Right. Someone _accidentally _sabotaged your tire." Miley swallowed some air, but her confidence never faltered. But I wasn't about to be persuaded by some beautiful stranger. "You really should report this. Or at least let me help you."

Miley smiled the brightest, most fake smile I had ever seen. Nobody perfects a smile like that overnight, I mused. She must always be putting on appearances. She placed her hand on my shoulder, and I couldn't help but feel the burn it created. "I appreciate that, Detective, but that won't be necessary." She took a strand of my blonde hair and wrapped it around her finger. "Thanks...Lilly."

I shot a glare in her direction, pulling away from her grip. She had attempted to sway me with...was she flirting with me? In any case, I stood my ground despite my initial libido's reaction. This woman had the power to make the air sizzle between us, like some down power line touching the ground. "Fine, Miss Stewart. But feel free to come down to the station if you feel any danger. Also, you can't drive more than one hundred miles on that spare, or go over 45. No more speeding," I chastised.

"Thanks, Detective," Miley said, slightly detached. I got the feeling -- a twinge, if you will -- that she was put off by my ignorance of her come-ons. Girls like that -- beautiful and confident -- always believe they can wrap someone around their finger. They're usually right.

But I have nerves of steel, I remind myself as I trudge back to my car, sopping wet with rain. At least, that's what I tell myself, despite the fact that I cannot get the image of her out of my head, or let go of the hope that I might possibly see her again. As I watch her car fade into the distance, I shut my eyes and try to extinguish the spark of dim hope I have.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nada.

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I've been really busy with real life mierda. Anyway, MUCHAS MUCHAS GRACIAS for all the wonderful feedback. All of your messages have been so encouraging, and definitely a contributing factor to this chapter. Special thanks to **patricia51 **for the helpful tips. ) I hope this chapter clears up some of your concerns. I am, however, taking a bit (or a lot...hehe) of liberty with the LA Sheriff's Dept regulations. But it will become clearer soon why I chose Lilly to work in the Detective Bureau under Major Crimes. There was reason behind my madness, I swear.

Onto the chapter! Please review if you feel at all the urge.

--

I have survived car bombs, heavy fire, mines, bombs, tanks, and more near-death experiences than I like to admit. I have organized teams upon teams on missions that if only one fraction of a step is missed, all of us could've died. But I, for the life me, cannot find any files on my desk.

To look at my desk, one would imagine a rabid monkey high on meth had taken a fancy to my papers, and strewn them about, as monkeys often do. You'd be wrong. No, unfortunately, I am respected by my peers, revered by my former unit, and was even commended by the President; but I am a mess.

I had five cases on the week I met Miley. One Amber alert, three (probably connected) robberies, and one case of homicide I was reviewing for someone else. All five cases had about thirty or more papers to them, and I was physically drowning in the paperwork. I stepped over piles of papers, and stood on my toes to play the radio I had on top of a large, grey filing cabinet. Soon, loud, raucous rock filled in my office, so I shut my door not to offend the sensibilities of the other officers, and began to review the robberies. Something about hard, tribal beats that rock behind most good bands is so primitive it clears my head, allowing me to think more clearly. Smart money said the robberies were connected, but a detective never assumes anything. I let the evidence lead me, as my training indicated.

My eyes were downcast toward my paperwork, and my music too loud for me to see the tall, lanky officer stride into my office. I allowed myself to be lost in my work, emersed in the details and sketches of each crime. Suddenly, my music went off and I nearly jumped out of my seat. I grumbled with dissatisfaction as I stared forward at the face of the man I had known my entire life.

"Oliver," I began in my most scolding tone.

He put his hands up in mock surrender. "I know, I know, you don't want to be bothered if your music is on. But!" he said, stepping on my paperwork to get to the seat that was across from my desk, "But I have a proposition you'd be mad to refuse." He wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis and I glanced at him tiredly. He must've read the clear signs of stress etched all over my face, but as Oliver does, he ignored them completely. "Breakfast, me and you, now."

Oliver took my hand and brought me around my desk, leading me out of my office like a show pony. I allowed myself to be taken, because in all honesty, I hadn't really been able to concentrate since meeting Miley a few days earlier.

"Y'all goin' out?" a loud, Texan drawl called from the desk. My eyes widened, and Oliver stopped mid-step. We were caught. The boomed voice belonged to Louise, our receptionist. She was sweet, well-intentioned, and an all-around 'good Christian woman.' But dear Lord, that women would make Jesus swear in annoyance. Oliver and I had taken to calling her 'The Mouth.' She perked up, tugging on her neon pink tank top. "Y'all goin' to that diner down the street?"

I shot daggers Oliver's way. Not only was I now torn away from my work, but I'd have to listen to Louise chew my ear off for as long as it would take for her to digest a breakfast. "Yeah," Oliver said slowly. With a cringe, he forced out a smile. "Wanna come?"

"Darlin' I am already there!" she exclaimed, grabbing her alligator-skinned purse. Arms crossed defensively over my chest, I walked behind Oliver and Louise, detangling myself from Oliver's grasp. Oh no, if he was going to invite The Mouth with us, he was going to talk to her on the walk there.

A few blocks and about thirty Louise stories later, we got situated inside our favorite diner. Good, old-fashioned diners were hard to come by in LA. But this one, quaint with its 50's decor, waitresses who have must've worked here when the place opened in 1956, and relatively cheap menu, was a rare gem among the tanning salons and Starbucks cafes.

"...So then I tells 'em, I tells 'em George! George you can't go swimming in those trunks, they look awful!" Louise exclaimed, her nasaly, booming voice echoing in the restaurant. There were few other patrons aside from us, but each of their gazes fell upon our table. I flushed with embarrassment, turning my attention back to Louise. "They didn't look that bad, but George has got these pasty white legs," Louise described. My stomach turned. Good thing we hadn't eaten yet. Now I wasn't sure I'd be able to. "They just don't look good in tight blue trunks!'

My eyes widened, and I looked to Oliver for an appropriate reaction. Even as kids, Oliver was always better with people than me. While Oliver choked out an answer, my eyes drifted upwards to the small television the men at the counter were watching. After a rather dull Tide commercial, bright flashes of pink and purple came on the screen. And then...Miley? I must've dropped my coffee spoon on the table, because I could vaguely hear a loud clatter. There she was -- Miley -- dressed in a long, blonde wig, singing her heart out. She was Hannah Montana! That's why I recognized her!

"Gee whiz, darlin', what shook your tree over there?" I heard Louise ask. When the ad for her upcoming concert at the Nokia Theater ended, I finally turned back to Oliver and Louise. "What, you never seen Hannah Montana before?"

Oliver, however, could tell something was up. The way he was staring at me, scrutinizing me in the look he had perfected since second grade, he could tell. With a quick glance to Louise, his gaze softened. "Got a little crush on Hannah Montana there, Lilly?" I appreciated Oliver's tactful way to dance around my obvious issue with a small smile.

Finally, Louise didn't talk. The subject of my homosexuality was not something the blabbermouth was comfortable talking about. I smirked, taking a long, drawn sip of my coffee. "Not quite, Ollie," I replied. I didn't want to make a mountain from a molehill, so I neglected to mention my odd meeting with Miss Stewart.

Back at the station, the sheriff was handing down duties to our officers. Oliver and I walked in, chatting idly about his homicide case I was looking over for him. "I think you really need to get the geeks back down there to take more picture of the blood splatter. Something about the direction just didn't look right to me."

Oliver nodded grimly. "Thanks, Lils. Hey, about that Hannah Montana --" The sheriff turned his attention to Oliver and I. My eyes narrowed. I abhorred the sheriff. He had tried several times to prevent my promotion within the ranks, on the basis that not only was I unqualified, but also that my military experience was not an advantage. Luckily the chief of police felt differently. Still, he was my boss, and he used that to give me shit work, such as the traffic detail, and drowned me in paperwork.

The glint in his eye made me believe that my fate was sealed once again. "Oaken," he bellowed. "You're on a homicide on Provident Road." Oliver nodded dutifully and went toward his office to gather his things. "Truscott."

"Yes, sir," I replied, more out of sheer habit than any actual respect.

The Sheriff smirked and handed me my detail card. "You're going to head the concert at the Nokia."

"That's not my jurisdiction," I shot through gritted teeth. "That's the plebes' job."

The Sheriff shrugged. "The chief seems to think that the bitch needs specialized security. So you're going to head the officers in all the security detail." My fists clenched at my sides and I snatched the card from him. "The concert is on Friday. You have two days to organize the security. From here until the two shows end, you'll be reporting directly to the theater. Look for weak spots, organize our crew, and plan out any emergency routes. Montana's manager, some hillbilly hack, wants one person guarding Miss Montana at all times." He let a long pause fall between us, before giving me a wide smile. "I said, 'sir, our lead detective would be glad to,'"He had hit several nerves with me, as he often did.

"That's not my job, Sheriff, and you know it," I replied. "I'm on five cases this week, I don't have time to follow around some idiot pop star."

With the wave of his hand, the man I loathed brushed me off. "If you have a problem, talk to chief, okay? Otherwise, take your assignment and get to your cases, Truscott." He ignored my lingering presence entirely as he trotted back to his office.

I marched to mine, slamming the wooden door hard behind me. How dare he?! I worked just as hard, if not harder than any detective in the bureau. I have more solved cases, more jailed criminals than any person of my rank. And with the flick of his wrist, one word from the chief, and I'm basically back to square one. I began to pace back and forth, stepping over my paperwork. I might've been mad, but I wasn't crazy enough to ruin days' worth of work.

A timid rapping at my door broke me from my obsessive rage. I flung the door open to reveal Oliver, who was squinting, bracing himself for an attack. "What?!" I bellowed, my fist that was still clutching my bullshit assignment leaning against the doorframe,

Oliver sighed, his head shaking in frustration. "You need to keep your temper in line, Lils. Sheriff Hodes is the Chief's butt buddy. He tells him everything." Oliver's look was so sincere, I almost couldn't be angry with him. Almost.

I growled, but it of course elicited no reaction in Oliver, simply because he had heard it a million times before. I have...quite a famous short temper. Oliver had seen it, and been on the receiving end, too many times to count. "I don't give a flying freakin' iota of a fuck where Hodes puts his dick," I began slowly, my voice low, "as long as it's a. nowhere near me, and b. nowhere near my cases. Other than that, he can put it wherever he wants, as long as he's okay with the fact that everyone's gonna ask, 'Is it in yet?'"

Oliver's lips spread in a large grin before he burst out laughing. He put his hand to his mouth, in a vain attempt to remember his surroundings. "I'm so telling the guys that," Oliver said, his eyes watering with tears.

I managed a small smile, rolling my eyes at Oliver's "guyness." "They'd know, they bend over for the Sheriff all the time."

Oliver nodded, "I know. They're such pussies." Off my raised eyebrow, Oliver stopped laughing. "Hey! I am not a pussy!"

I snorted. "Sure you're not, Oaken. I'm sure they don't call you Okey-Dokey-Oakey for any reason at _all_," I joked, recalling the nickname Oliver had been giving when he was in training. His cheeks flushed crimson, and my work was done. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to head over to the Nokia to look things over. Considering that's going to be my new home for a while."

Oliver nodded, stepping out of the doorway to allow me through. We walked through the station and out into the hot LA air. I squinted in annoyance at the relentless sun, putting on the sunglasses I had positioned atop the buttons on my uniform. As we got to my unmarked Crown Vic, Oliver turned to me, his elbow resting on my hood. "By the way, you never told me what the hell was going on with you in the diner."

I slid into my car, shutting the door. I turned the engine, and rolled my window down. Oliver leaned, folding his arms over the door. I debated telling him for a split second, but I thought better of it. It might compromise my mission if I informed him. "Oh, nothing. That Hannah Montana girl just looked familiar to me. Now I realize it's because she was the siren of hellish fate singing to me, knowing that I'd be at her whim soon." My fist curled around the stickshift, shoving it into reverse. "Adios, Oliver."

LA traffic was a stereotypical nightmare as I fought my way through to reach the theater. It was relatively new, and really giving the surrounding concert halls a run for their money. I pulled up outside one of the gates, rolling down my window for a security officer. I flashed my badge.

"Detective Truscott. I'm here to do a little reconnaissance for the Sheriff's Department," I informed the towering officer, who had to squat to see inside my patrol car. He didn't speak for a few moments. "Will there be a problem?" I asked incredulously.

"No, ma'am," the officer replied. "Go right on in. Miss Montana is finishing up one of her rehearsals." He pointed to the largest entrance, and I parked my Vic outside. I surveyed the outside, noting with interest that all the doors were unlocked. That would have to be rectified.

As I got inside to the actual amphitheater, I heard the sounds of pop music pulsing through the enormous sound system. And then there she was. Glowing in the spotlight, glittering in the center of the stage, was Miley. Of course, she looked drastically different done up in pounds of make-up, donning a blonde wig. But she was most definitely Miley. Those eyes, so unrealistically piercing, cut through the artificial smoke and struck me straight in the heart.

I didn't have enough time to analyze the fluttering inside my chest further, because a large man, nearly alone in the audience, stood slowly. Miley was in the midst of a song, her eyes closed, hips swaying to the music. I watched the man with keen interest as he approached the stage. Then, I saw a shimmer of metal as he reached into the back of his waistband.

Wasting no time, I took off in his direction. As his arm came around his side, I leapt forward, screaming "get down!" to all who would listen. The man and I crashed into the ground, where I twisted his arm around his back, holding him down against the floor. "Who the fuck are you?" I received silence. I looked down, seeing the small pistol in his grasp. My heart skipped a beat for a moment. "Who the fuck are you?" I repeated, slamming his face down into the carpeted aisle. I grabbed the radio from my pocket. "This is Detective Truscott requesting back-up at the Nokia theater, Chick Hearn Court. I have a suspect in custody in possession of a deadly weapon."

Dispatch crackled through. "Copy that, Truscott, they're on their way. Over."

While I cuffed the silent man, a large, rather handsome, mustachioed older man approached us. "Who is this?" he asked in his drawl. I shrugged, shoving the suspect down into one of the seats. I had already taken his pistol, which was now in the back of my waistband.

"No idea, sir, but he was wielding a gun, and I believe he was going to shoot at Miss Montana there," I informed. "And you are?"

The man stuck out his hand toward me. "Robbie Ray, Miss Montana's manager." I narrowed my eyes. Robbie Ray. Miley had said her...this was her father. The wheels of my thought process must've been evident in my eyes as he canted his head to the side. "Have we met?"

"No sir," I shook my head. "I'm Detective Lillian Truscott. I'm here to --"

"To be Hannah's new bodyguard, that's what," he exclaimed with a large smile. For the first time, I looked up at Miley. Her mouth was agape, so open I imaged she probably could've swallowed the stage.

"Um, no sir," I replied as politely as I could. The nerve...a bodyguard. I was a detective, for Christ's sake! "I'm here to head security for her concerts. Now, this man was just an example of --"

"Of why my daughter needs you as her bodyguard!" he interrupted. He swung his arm around my shoulder, and I tensed. I had absolutely no idea what gave this man the idea that I wanted to be touched. "Look, I know government pay can't be all that good," he began. "So why don't you help me out? You'll get some good salary. I mean, you have to be here with us anyway, right? And obviously I was right when I thought Mi--Hannah needed better security," he said, tossing his head toward the suspect.

Luckily, our moment was broken by several officers rushing inside. I waved them over, practically shoving the large man at them. "Take him downtown. Book him. Get him a lawyer if he won't talk." I handed them his pistol. "Here's his gun. Get him out of here," I ordered. The officers nodded and escorted the large man out of the arena, but not before he had time to shoot one more look at me over his shoulder.

I shuddered, but remained calm nonetheless. Robbie came back over toward me, Miley in tow behind him now. "So what do you say, Miss Truscott?"

I turned around, finally coming face to face with Miley since we had met days ago in the rain. Even with her ridiculous wig and make-up, she was still a stunner. My mouth opened and shut a few times, and I must've looked like a fish out of water. "I'd have to clear it with my boss first."

"Nonsense," Robbie replied. "I'll give Timmy a call." Off my surprised look, Robbie shrugged. "The Chief and I are poker buddies." I stayed silent, my eyes still never leaving Miley's. I'm not sure which one of us started the staring contest, but I could've peel my gaze away from her. "So, how 'bout it, darlin'?" Robbie asked Miley.

She broke her gaze away from me, and I let out a long breath I wasn't aware I had been holding. with the same fake smile she had given me a few days earlier, she agreed. "Sounds great." Without another word, she turned around and began to march off to somewhere backstage.

Brushing passed her father, I followed her through the winding backstage hallways. "Miss _Montana_," I called, a grin making its way onto my countenance. Miley stopped in her tracks. "I suggest you stay in your dressing room until I've secured the rest of the arena. I'll have to get you a radio, just in case --"

"Look here, _Bodyguard_," Miley leveled at me, taking predatory steps toward me. "I don't need any fucking protection, all right? And you are most certainly not going to dictate what I can and cannot do, and where I can and cannot go." Finally, we stood close, our faces only inches apart. "You got me?"

I pressed my index finger into her sternum, pushing the pop star back a few feet. "You listen here. I will not be given orders my some snot-nosed little princess who isn't even remotely aware of the danger she could presently be in." I took one step." You _will _respect my authority," I growled, lowering my voice to a near hiss. I took a few steps closer to her so that we were again mere inches apart. The air around us sizzled again. "Or I will make every day of the next week a living hell for you." I paused. "You got me?" I added with a shit-eating grin.

Miley bit her lip, her eyes darting from my lips to my eyes. Finally, with an exasperated 'ugh!' she fled to her dressing room, slamming the door closed behind her. My head hung low, I took a long, therapeutic breath, forcing my lungs to expand as far as they could. _What have I gotten myself into?_


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own!  
Author's Note: I'm overwhelmed by the response to my story. Thank all of you for your inspiring reviews!

With Miley safely in her dressing room, I was free to scour the area for more unsecured, accessible points. For the most part, there was ample enough security around areas that a common would-be criminal would think to try and gain entry from. However, the labyrinth of wires, passage-ways, and roadie areas beneath and behind the stage were largely unsecured. I made a mental note to address it with the security the theater provided. As I meandered around the perimeter of the stage, I noticed that were only four men directly dedicated to Miley's security. Strange, I thought, since her father pulled strings to get a high-level detective and vet to protect his daughter. One would think there'd be nothing short of an army outside her door.

I stepped onto the stage, for the first time seeing as Miley must. However, with the bright, hot spotlights all aimed at center stage, she couldn't possible see anything. This was the most vulnerable spot for Miley to be in, I reasoned. She was entirely helpless up here. I squinted, raising my arm to try and see into the crowd. "Can someone turn on the house lights?" I yelled, hoping at least one light tech was still on duty.

The spotlight turned off, and the house lights shone upon the rows of empty seats. I began to feel that small amount of anxiousness I always felt on stage. That nervous, tight, pit-of-your-stomach twisting that I got even as a kid giving speeches at the front of the class. Shaking the feeling, I turned to come face-to-face with a large, bald, white man, arms crossed his chest. "Who are you?"

I stuck out my hand. "Detective Lillian Truscott, LA Sheriff's Department," I replied. His tone was awfully condescending, and considering he was wearing a tight black shirt with a purple and yellow "Hannah Montana" logo, he wasn't in any position to judge me.

He snorted, looking over toward an equally as large man. The other man approached us and began to laugh. "You're the cop HillRobby Ray hired to protect Miley?" he inquired with a laugh. "I'd like to see you try and take down a man my size."

I raised my eyebrow. "You know, considering you wear that fashionable shirt, you were nowhere to be found when someone pointed a gun at her," I shot back, narrowing my eyes in a glare. They didn't care about her, they merely cared about the power they wielded. Which, in the long run, wasn't much. It didn't take a rocket scientist to hold back screaming little girls. "And," I added, "I have taken down men twice your size and twice as smart. So don't push me."

The bald man cackled, taking his pointer finger and pushing it hard into my shoulder. Although it hurt because of the area he pressed, I was not phased. With the skill I had acquired in years of military training, I took his finger, and twisted his arm around. My back to him, I used my arms to lift and my back leg to push and spun him upside down, just so he would land on his back.

His buddy burst out laughing, but quickly left the stage before I had time to approach him as well. I glared down at his prone shape, sneering. "I told you not to fucking push me. I don't like to be touched." Satisfied I had made my authority and skill very clear, I walked off (stage right) and nearly ran into Miley, who was waiting in the wings. I stumbled back, my glare focused in her direction. "Was I not clear about you staying in your dressing room?

"Did you just take down my bodyguard?" Miley asked, pointing to the large man who was lumbering to his feet, and ignoring my inquiry.

My gaze hardened. "_I _am your bodyguard." I balled my fists at my side, stepping closer to the pop tart. "And you will do as I say. Go. To. Your. Dressing. Room. Did I make myself crystal fucking clear this time? Want me to spell it in a glitter crayon for you?" Now I was antagonizing her. By the way she was reacting, I could see that I was truly getting under her skin. And that's exactly where I wanted to be. ...In more ways than one.

Speaking my my libido, it was in overdrive as we came closer. Her hair, now in its natural loose, brown ringlet was resting comfortably on her shoulders. Her make-up was wiped off, leaving just her natural, beautiful glow to shine through. Her presence was irritatingly intoxicating, and I was having a hard time concentrating as I watched her lips move.

"My father may think you're some kind of magical Godsend, but I don't," she stated harshly. My eyes darted up to meet hers. "You're just some lame hired help, and you have no control over me, okay, Lilly?" Miley said, trying to inject as much venom in her tone as she could.

I growled, pressing my hands against her shoulders, shoving her backward. "Listen to me, you spoiled fucking little brat. You're in some kind of danger. Someone tried to shoot you, do you not understand?" I yelled, eliciting no response from Miley. I shook my head, "You are one of the dumbest creatures I have ever had the displeasure of meeting and do not deserve my level of protection."

In all my years, I would've never seen this coming. Her hand whipped up from her hip so fast, if we had been dueling, I would've been Alexander Hamilton, on the ground. She slapped me, hard, across the cheek. I could feel the heat of what was certainly going to become a mark glowing on the side of my face. I rubbed the area, unable to react for a few moments. "How dare you," she said, her voice so low, it sent a shudder down my spine. "You don't know a Goddamn thing about me!" She fled once more, thankfully in the direction of her dressing room.

I stood there, dumbfounded for a few moments. When the pain subsided, and my clarity reappeared, I was slightly ashamed of myself. It was my duty to stay calm, and I allowed my emotions to overcome my senses. I had probably truly hurt her feelings, and even though she was an agitating pop brat, she was still human. Making the agonizing decision to apologize, I ambled toward her dressing room.

As I approached the door, I heard a song floating through the air. Miley was singing. No music, no helping back-up vocal; simply Miley. I stood at the entrance to her room, listening through the door. Just as I was beginning to become entranced, my cell phone rang and the voice immediately ceased. Already agitated that whoever called ruined my listening party, I slid the phone open.

"Truscott," I answered curtly.

Oliver sighed. "I remember when you used to answer with, 'This is Lilly, talk to me!'" Oliver imitated in his highest falsetto.

I smiled in spite of myself. "Those times have long passed, my friend. Along with my insanely colorful wardrobe, crush on Jordan Knight, and my skateboard." It makes me cringe with embarrassment to remember the girl I once was. A tomboy, a skateboarder, a truly outgoing girl with a penchant for bright, mismatched clothes, and hats. Truth be told, I still had my old skateboard, collecting years of dust deep within the recesses of my closet.

Oliver laughed a far-away, nostalgic laugh, 'mhming' into the receiver. Clearing his throat, he spoke again. "How goes babysitting Miss Hannah Montana?"

I groaned, turning and resting my back against the wall. My eyes stared down at my nails, chipped and slightly dirty. I picked at them while I spoke, "It's like wiping your ass with sandpaper, Okes. It's neither productive nor pleasurable." I heard a short laugh and grunted. "I'm not kidding! She's..." I paused, sighing. "To be honest, Oliver, she's not all that bad. She's just not used to having someone tell her what to do."

"Then you two should have a lot in common," Oliver replied. I knew it was code for 'So you should understand her!' and all I could do was sigh in agreement. "Look, I really called to tell you that your attempted shooter isn't talking. Or, he's talking, and whatever comes out of his mouth isn't helpful. Hodes wants _you_ to interrogate him."

I exhaled loudly in frustration. "That's **not** my job! Christ, he's having me do everything except sweep the fucking floors." I pushed off the wall and began to pace the hallway. "I mean, I have to be on Miley 24/7." Oh shit.

"Miley?" Oliver asked. The boy never missed a word!

I coughed. "Miley is her codename. Obviously we can't say Hannah Montana over the radios." Thank goodness I spent the better part of my teenage years lying to my parents. It was really second nature to me.

"Oh," Oliver replied with sincere belief. "That's a weird name."

"Does Hodes expect me to bring her along?" I blurted out, the wheels of my brain having turned way beyond my name debacle.

"I don't think he thought about it. But you're gonna have to. I mean, no safer place than a police station, right?"

I sighed. "Right. Thanks, Ollie. I'll be there soon." Without waiting for a reply, I hung up my phone. As if on cue, Miley stepped out of her dressing room. For the first time since we met on the side of the road, she was dressed in normal clothes, her natural brown locks bouncing on her shoulders. My heart fluttered despite my better judgment, and I swallowed my anxiousness. "We need to go to the police station."

She jutted out her hip, placing her hand on it before she spoke. "Crazy bodyguard say what? I heard you on the phone. I am _not _setting foot inside some grimy police station."

My eyes narrowed. "Do you always eavesdrop on other people's conversations? Or is this some kind of special ploy to piss me off?" So much for apologizing, I thought to myself. Off her frustrated glare, I sighed. "Look, Miley, I'm sorry." Her defensive stance relaxed a little, and I braced myself and continued. "We clearly got off on the wrong foot here. I was very unprofessional and I apologize for my words. But in any case, I need you to cooperate with me. I'm only trying to help you."

"Because it's your job," Miley mumbled, her gaze toward the ground.

My brow furrowed in confusion. What exactly did she mean by that? Of course because it was my job. Why else would I be here? "Exactly. And besides my own personal honor, I am bound by law to give you the very best protection I could possibly provide. But I need you to help me, help you."

Miley nodded, and I smiled a little at the eventual breakthrough. Tearing her gaze from the ground, her piercing blue eyes bored through me. "How can I help?" She even managed to form the semblance of a smile, which warmed my heart a little.

"Um," I stuttered. Her eyes were really distracting! And her lips...god...there must be some kind of law against having lips that beautiful. I blinked hard and shook my head, trying to achieve clarity. "I need you to accompany me to the station so I can ask a few questions of the man who tried to shoot you earlier today."

At the mention of the incident, Miley seemed to shudder. "Okay," she agreed slowly. "Can I watch?" Her eyes brightened a little and I cracked a smile in response.

"I'll see what I can do." Satisfied that at least we weren't at each other's throats, I escorted her out with me. We climbed into my Vic, and I gave a small wave to the tall security guard who had let me in. He waved back, and immediately got into his radio.

The ride to the station was unbearably long and extremely awkward. We sat in silence for the most part, with Miley stealing occasional glances at all of the equipment in my car. Her hand reached toward my radio and I grabbed her wrist. Her eyes darted to me, worried. "What are you doing?" I asked, giving her a quick glance before returning my eyes to the road.

"I wanted to put on music." Her response was so simple, so sincere, that I released her wrist and shook my head, swallowing my initial anger.

"There's no real radio in here. No FM stations or anything." I watched her eyes drift downward to my laptop. "No internet." Miley sighed and leaned back into her seat. Her fingers began to play with some of the buttons in between our seats. I grabbed her hand again. "Please, Miley, don't touch anything, okay?"

Letting out a dramatic 'huff' and crossing her arms, the brunette stared forward. For someone in her twenties, she was awfully immature, I thought to myself. Suddenly, I began to watch as other cars yielded to me. Confusion etched on my features, I looked to Miley, whose eyes I don't think had ever been wider. Quickly, she flipped back the switch she had activated. "Sorry," she mumbled, looking out her passenger side window. "I wanted to see what it would do."

Instead of reacting with a verbal assault, which was my initial reaction, I gripped my hands on the steering wheel and pressed harder on the accelerator. We were on good terms now, and I didn't want to ruin it simply because I have a short fuse.

We entered the station without incident, checking Miley in under the alias "Susan Stewart" at Miley's suggestion. I led her to the interrogation room, and explained to one of the officers the situation. He nodded his head, moving aside to allow Miley to stand in front of him.

"Now, if you recognize this man at all, that would be helpful," I said to Miley, who nodded in response. I walked into the room, sitting down in the chair across from the attempted shooter. I finally got a good look at him -- tall, built, of some kind of Eastern European descent. "So, they tell me you're not much of a talker." The man looked stoically at me. "Neither am I, really." I shuffled the file in front of me, opening it up to reveal what little information they had gathered on him so far. "Ilya Dobovsky, is it?" His eyes flickered to mine for a moment. "I'll take that as a yes. It says here you came here from Moldova on a student visa...twenty-seven months ago. That puts you a whole eighteen months passed your scheduled date of return."

"I do not wish to return to Moldova," he finally said, his voice thick with a Russian accent.

I snorted. "That's too bad. You're being deported soon enough." His eyes went to the ground, and I let out a long sigh. "And you have two choices. You can either be deported as a criminal, and we'll let the Moldovan courts so as they please, or," I paused, waiting until we made eye contact, "you can talk to me and tell me why exactly you were attempting to shoot Hannah Montana."

Ilya looked me straight in the eye, and began to say a long, complicated set of sentences in Russian. I narrowed my eyes, struggling to understand him. My Russian was shoddy at best, so I only caught the words 'rat' and 'eyes.' Satisfied with himself, he sat back into the chair. He wasn't going to talk again, I knew it.

With a sigh, I got up from my seat and nodded to the officer on guard to take him away. "Take him back to the holding cell and get on the line with immigration." I exited the room, slapping the man's file folder into the chest of Sheriff Hodes, who had been standing behind the two-way glass during my short time with Mr. Dobovsky. "He's all yours, sir." I looked around, and my eyes widened in panic. "Where is she?"

"Relax," Hodes said, rolling his eyes. "We showed her your office. She's there now. No need to get your panties in a knot."

Instead of replying, or cold-cocking him in the face, I balled my fists and began to march toward my office. I swung the door open to reveal Miley sitting at my desk. She had managed to rummage through my things in a short period of time, and she was holding a small picture frame. Her eyes leveled up to mine, confusion evident in her orbs.

"Who is this?" she asked, turning the frame around to me. I didn't have to truly look at the picture to know which one it was. It had been taken years before, during one of my first weeks as Corporal. My squad and I had just been dispatched on what would be our last mission. Before we left camp, I had brought aside my best friend since boot camp, Emily. We snapped two photos, and we each promised to keep the print with us at all times. This way, if we were separated, we could find each other.

The sadness that immediately flushed through my system was quickly replaced by anger. How dare she think she could jut go through my personal belongings? I strode across the office, snatching the photo away from her. I opened my bottom drawer and dropped it inside, slamming the cabinet closed with my foot. "Don't touch my things," I warned in a low voice. "Now let's go."

Miley stood, still clearly confused by my rash reaction. She walked around the desk, her arms crossed over her chest. "You didn't answer my question."

"I don't have to fucking answer ANY of your Goddamn questions, you hear me, Miley? I am in charge of _you_, not the other fucking way around. So don't you ever snoop through my things again, understood?" I was seething with anger, but not enough to not notice Miley's unabashed hurt at my lashing out.

"Whatever," she replied in a shaky voice, nearly running out of my office, and more than likely, back out to the car. I followed her out slowly, trying to reconcile the anger and sadness that was flooding my senses. I thought better about verbalizing anything I was feeling, and silently got back into my car. Miley's body was turned toward her window, her eyes staring far out into the sky, whose orange glow of dusk was pouring onto Miley's face.

Too wrapped up in my own feelings to take notice, I started the engine and began the long ride back to the theater. So much for our truce. Something told me that getting a cease-fire between us would be just as difficult as it would've been in Afghanistan.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Oh, if only.  
Author's Note: I come to you from the Nemeos Cyber Cafe in Nice, France. And if one more person asks me if I know about Angelina Jolie's babies, I'm going to shove a baguette in someone's culo. Trying to vacation, and now there's one bazillion paparazzos camped out outside the hospital she's in. You've never seen anything like this in your life. In fact, sitting next to me right now is someone blogging about her. It's fucking insane. And the babies aren't due yet! She's going to be here for weeks! Anyway, this chapter is rather short because I'm on vacation in France. But I've had this chapter on my laptop for a while, so I figured I'd post. Thank you all for the fantastic reviews.

_Seven Years Earlier..._

_"Truscott! We're going sandboarding! Get your ass out here!" Emily screamed, "sandboard" underneath her arm. I emerged from our makeshift home in one of the caves we had found uninhabited about 250 kilometers south of Qatat. "Oh, Captain, my Captain!" Emily saluted as I emerged. Emily Walker was my Lance Corporal in our fireteam of 5, working directly beneath me. After being completely ignored for promotion even though we had served enough time (two years on active duty) we were finally promoted after being recognized nationally for capturing a rather rag-tag cell of terrorists on our last mission._

_I laughed, shaking my head at her excitement. We were supposed to dispatch on our final mission to the border of Pakistan in eighteen hours. We were ending our second tour of duty, and my Sergeant had made it very clear we would not be asked on a third for a pretty large chunk of time. We were going home. So, we had traded some of our shiity military food for 'sandboards,' which were the sand equivalent of a snowboard, put on our civilian clothes, and began to ride._

_Once we had found a substantial amount of sandy hills -- seeing as how some of the terrain in Afghanistan wasn't desert, it was simply mountains -- we began our day. I maneuvered my sandboard like a pro, just as I had done up until I had enlisted with the Marines. Emily, however, was failing miserably. After falling on her ass several times, she simply stood there, watching the rest of us move down the dunes. Once I had gotten back to where Emily had been struggling, I turned my head and smiled. "Need help, Walker?"_

_"Can it, Truscott," Emily replied, resting her elbows on her knees. "I don't understand how this works. Like, how am I supposed to balance?"_

_I held out my hand and helped up my comrade. I set her "goofy" style -- right foot forward -- and held her by the hips from behind. "Okay, now we're gonna start slowly." I jerked forward, setting a steady pace down the hill. "Now, to turn you just lean." I leaned forward, bringing her with me, and brought us right. I pulled her back and we went slightly left. Soon, the two of us were careening down the dunes, and I finally felt Emily relax. _

_I let her go, and immediately wished I hadn't. As soon as I did, Emily reached back and grabbed me. Her grab set me off balance and we both began tumbling to the ground. We landed hard on the sand, our boards dislodged from our feet, scattered a few feet away. I threw my helmet off and began to laugh, and looked to my right to see Emily had done the same. She propped her head up on her palm and looked over at me. _

_"You are truly awful at this, Walker. And I mean_ truly _awful," I ribbed, getting a small shove in my side in response. _

_"Well, so-o-o-rry not all of us were raging tomboys in our youth. Some of us were a little more femme than that, all right?" Emily teased, flashing me her bright, wide smile._

_I pretended to look offended. "How dare you? I'll have you know I was quite the boy-chaser in my days!"_

_Emily snorted hard, shaking her head in disbelief. "Oh, Truscott, we both know you weren't." She leaned down, hovering over my lips. "I mean, I know you've had a crush on me since the day we met."_

_I gulped, my head now firmly planted in the sand. She was right. I had developed a crush on her the day we met. But she had been engaged at the time, and I was too concerned about my promotion within the ranks to dwell on it. I had seen her naked numerous times, we had shared a bed, and been forced into quarters just big enough for us and two packs of water to fit into, and I had never made any sort of move on her._

_"When I met you, I hated you," I clarified, a smirk plastered on my face. And I had. She was a total bitch, giving everyone in boot camp some holier-than-thou attitude that we all found equally nauseating. However, when her fiancee of two years called her from her home to tell her he was leaving her, she broke down. And, of course, I caught her in that vulnerable moment, and from then on, we were two tough bitches together._

_It wasn't long after that when I fell in love with her. She was bright, funny, and not to mention the most beautiful woman in boot camp. Her eyes were a light, seafoam green, and her hair was chestnut brown, almost black. Her unparalleled beauty combined with a personality and intelligence I hadn't ever come across, even in my short time in college, made me simply just tumble into love with her. Of course, she never returned my affections, not that I made any forward attempt to convey them. Not only would that have been cause for dishonorable discharge, but it would've just been terribly embarrassing. But now here, with her lips inches from mine, I was thinking maybe I was wrong._

_"Tell me you want me to kiss you," she demanded softly, moving strands of hair from my face. "Go on," she urged._

_My breath hitched, and although I was concerned that the guys would find us, my eyes never left hers. "I want you to kiss me."_

_Emily smirked, giving me a small nod. "I knew it." With that, she swooped down and gave me a long, searing kiss. Every part of me seemed to ignite, and I curled my fingers through her brown hair and pulled her closer to me. I wanted to be engulfed by her, was my only thought as she slid her warm tongue along my lips. I wanted to drown in her. "Lilly," she whispered against my lips. It was the first time she had ever addressed me by my first name, and it sounded heavenly. "If we live through tonight --"_

_"Emily, don't say shit like that. You know it's a jinx," I warned, unable to stop my hands from making long lines up and down the sides of her abdomen._

_Emily smiled warmly, kissing me again for a brief moment. "You and I both know this is a dangerous mission. And I' m just saying, should God find it necessary to keep us around after tonight, you're taking me on a date when we get back to the States."  
_

_I chuckled, working my hands around her body. I wanted to memorize the feel and contours of her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed at the contact, her teeth darting out to bite her lower lip. "Oh really? I have to wine and dine you first?"_

_Emily laughed, finally breaking our contact by standing up. She shook her head, helping me up, and in the process, pulling me against her. "No, Truscott, at this rate, you're going to have to wine and dine me second." With a sly grin she kissed me once again, then headed off to retrieve our sandboards. The guys never knew why we came back with such silly grins on our faces._

Present Time

While driving back toward the theater, I was contacted by my superiors. They told me that I was to go home, retrieve my things, and stay in the hotel room next to Miley's for the next four days. Miley did not respond to the news, she simply stared out the window as I turned off at my exit.

I sighed. "Look," I said, finally breaking the silence between us. "I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier." I paused, waiting for a response. When none came, I let out another sigh and continued. "The picture you found --"

"It doesn't matter, all right?" Miley said, her voice small. I gave her a quick glance, and I noticed her eyes were slightly red. Had I made her cry? "I don't care about your stupid picture. I don't care about you."

Ouch. It was my turn to feel the sting of reproach. I nodded slowly. "I deserved that. I don't expect you to care about me. I just ...I want you to know that I'm sorry for my behavior. I keep people at a distance, and I'm just not used to having someone around."

Miley finally looked over at me, and the puffiness around her eyes had seemed to go down. I really had hurt her feelings. My heart constricted in my chest as she simply stared at me. Without a word she looked out the window once more. I sighed and kept my grip hard on the steering wheel. We were only about a couple of minutes from my apartment. "Was she your girlfriend?" Miley asked abruptly, sternly, with a lot more confidence in her voice.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment. "No," I answered firmly. "She was not my girlfriend." Miley seemed satisfied with my answer and turned away from me again. I made a left onto the street that led to the cul-de-sac where my apartment complex stood.

"But you are gay though, right?" Miley inquired again, turning to me. Off my wide-eyed stare, she backtracked. "I-I mean, I'm just saying that," Miley stumbled for words, and I couldn't help but smile a little at it. It was slightly endearing. "I mean...you are gay though, right?"

I couldn't help but laugh at her earnestness, turning into my parking garage. After allowing myself a few moments to enjoy her discomfort, I nodded. "Yes, I am gay. Though that isn't any of your business," I reminded with a chastising stare over my aviators.

"Just wonderin'. No need to get your feathers all ruffled." Miley stepped out of the car, closing the door behind her. I led her to my building, then up the two flights of stairs to my apartment. I had a fairly nice apartment, considering government pay isn't all that great. My floors were hardwood, my furniture black leather. I even had a small wet bar I had built with Oliver not too long ago beside my kitchenette.

"You can wait here, I'll go pack some of my stuff." Miley nodded in response, inquisitively staring at all of my possessions. No doubt she was going through my little keepsakes I had collected while on my tours. Every so often we'd hit a city, or a small village in Afghanistan, and I'd have some time to appreciate the local culture. Emily always enjoyed it, too.

I left her alone for about five minutes, and when I came back into my main room, she had found her way to my pictures. I had many of my family, some of Oliver and I as kids, some as adults, many of my squad, and many of Emily. Miley was at the last picture, a candid shot of Emily with her nose buried in a book. Her hair was a mess, falling over her shoulders in a haphazard manner. But her eyes, they were so intensely focused on the book, I couldn't help but snap a photo of that moment. She looked beautiful. She always did.

"That's my favorite picture of her," I finally said, standing next to Miley. I let my fingers trace the picture frame, letting out a small sigh. "She loves books. Anytime we got anywhere near civilization, Emily would hunt down an English-language book. Her biggest regret, she always said, was not learning Arabic soon enough to read the stories."

"Emily," Miley repeated, as if she was learning a new language, trying to feel the word in her mouth. "Her name was Emily." Miley replaced the photo on my shelf, satisfied enough to not ask me anymore questions. She looked down at my duffel bag, then back up to me. "That's it?"

I shrugged. "You spend two years in a desert, you learn to pack light." I shrugged once more. "I don't need much." Miley continued to stare at my bag, and I felt even the duffel bag contracting and becoming inadequate. "All right, princess, I'm sorry I don't need nine suitcases for all my costumes," I teased with a smile.

Miley smiled back, warming my heart in the process. "I bet you'd look reeeeal smart in one of my outfits, Detective."

I rolled my eyes and ushered Miley out the door. "I don't think so, Miss Montana. I think you're the only one of the two of us who looks good in sequins. And if you think otherwise, then you don't know me at all," I joked.

"Oh, don't worry," Miley said, turning around and walking backward toward my car. "I'll crack you open one way or the other, Truscott." With a wink she turned around, sliding into the car with ease and grace. I stood there, loading my duffel bag into the trunk, shifting it around the videotaping equipment we stored back there. For a moment, I just stood, trying to shake the shiver from my body. The way she said my name... Shaking the thoughts from my head I slammed the trunk closed, and went around to the driver's side. This time, we drove in a comfortable silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nada.

Author's Note: Another week here in Nice before I had back to California, and it's been truly lovely. Anyway, your wonderful reviews, and this wonderful country and beautiful beach, have been the best source of inspiration. Thank you guys!

--

I parked in the lot of the Regent Beverly Wilshire, adjacent to Rodeo Drive, and unloaded my luggage from my trunk. The hotel was truly awe-inspiring. It was tremendous, towering over the shops below it. The doorman asked to retrieve my luggage, but I refused. I had a few surveillance equipment devices, and I was not about to allow someone else to handle them.

Miley led me to the elevator, where once inside, we waited what seemed like forever to arrive at the 14th floor penthouse suite. "Have you ever been here before?" Miley asked as we stepped into the hallway.

A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth, my eyebrow raised high. "Miley, does it seem like I've ever been here before?" I knew she was making small talk, but it amused me to poke fun at the star.

Miley blushed, ducking her head slightly as we approached her suite. "No, but, you never know..." As Miley went to swipe her room card, I grabbed her wrist. Her head immediately snapped in my direction and I put my finger on her lips. I felt her lips part and I lifted my finger and pointed at the door. It was slightly ajar. Nodding in understanding, Miley shifted her stance behind me.

I withdrew my gun, my back to her door. I pushed it open, quickly finding the light switch and beginning to scan the room. "How many rooms are there?" I whispered to Miley, who stood frozen in the doorway.

"Uh..um...I think five or six," she answered, her voice tight. "Six," she repeated firmly.

I nodded and continued my scan. Nothing seemed out of place. "Is everything like you left it?" I asked to Miley, who was now practically clinging to my jacket. She affirmed me with a quick nod and continued to latch onto me. I felt the sweat of her hands on my sides as she wrapped them around my waist. Suddenly, I heard a small rustling in an adjacent bedroom. "Stay right here," I ordered in a hush, pressing my free hand on her abdomen.

I ventured into the next bedroom, turning on the light. As I went toward the closet, I saw a figure leap over the bed and stumble, trying to get to the door. Light on my feet, I sprang toward him, grabbing him roughly by the back of his collar. "Sheriff's department, get down on the ground, now!" I yelled. The man complied, immediately dropping to the ground, just outside of the bedroom. I leveled my gun at his head from above, roughly shoving him over with my boot. "What are you doing in here?" The man was probably in his early twenties, unshaven, probably Caucasian, though his features were dark.

The man held his hands up, and I grabbed the small article he was waving around in his hand. I inspected it for a moment, my brows furrowed. It was underwear. A small, lacy pink thong to be exact. I glared down at him, my stare firm. "I-I h-h-heard Hannah Montana was staying i-in this room." He looked up toward Miley, who had her arms wrapped around her midsection. For the first time, I realized she had seen the entire thing. She was shaking, her eyes unfocused.

"You were wrong," I clarified. The man kept staring up at Miley, so I kicked him in the shin. "Look at me!" His eyes rolled forward to me. "I have enough evidence at this moment to send you directly to jail. Is that what you want?" He shook his head the negative, so I continued. "I didn't think so. Who told you Hannah Montana was staying here?" The man looked again at Miley, and I swiftly kicked him in the side. "Don't fucking look at her!"

He winced, coughing just slightly. Wuss, I thought. I hadn't even kicked him that hard. "One of the cooks. I don't know his name. I told him I had heard a rumor online that this was where she was staying, and for a hundred bucks he got me access to the room. He had the card, I don't know how," the man confessed.

"Get up," I ordered. "Slowly." He complied, standing slowly and turning to look at me. I leveled my gun at his head once again. "Since I am certainly not Miss Montana, and neither is she," I said, nodding my head toward Miley, "you were misled. Now, you're going to leave this hotel immediately. If I so much as see you breathing within five hundred yards of this hotel, I will have you arrested. Are we clear? Give me the card," I ordered, my free hand outstretched. He placed the card from his pocket into my open hand. I lowered my gun. "Get the fuck out now. And close the door behind you."

I watched as the man retreated out of the room hastily, closing the door behind him. Miley suddenly hugged me from behind, and I tensed at the contact. The pop star squeezed me tightly, as if I were her last hope. "Miley?" I asked, but I got no reaction. Suddenly, I felt a warm liquid drop onto my neck. I turned around, steadying Miley's trembling with my hands gripping her shoulders. She was crying. My grip softened. "Miley, it's okay. Look, he's gone. He wasn't even a threat." Miley lunged forward and hugged me again, nearly collapsing her weight on me. I half walked, half carried the brunette to her bedroom, sitting her down on her bed. I got onto my knees, pressing my palms onto the tops of her thighs. "Hey," I said softly. "Look at me." Miley continued to stare down at my hands, so I cupped her chin in my hand and gently lifted her head upward. Her gaze settled on mine, her doe-like green eyes welled with tears. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Miley."

Miley nodded, taking in a few shaky breaths. "I know," she replied in a voice barely above a whisper.

I shook my head, giving Miley a small smile. "No, you don't know." I took her hands in mine. "You have to put your trust in me. You have to perfectly understand that I am willing and able to put down my life for yours. It's what I have been trained to do. It's what I do best. We might live in two very different worlds, Miley, but we are both the best at what we do. You entertain, I protect and serve."

I must have calmed her down some, because her quiet weeping gave way to sniffing. She detached herself from my grip and laid down on her bed. I stood, slightly nonplussed by her lack of response. Of course, if someone had just broken into my hotel suite and tried to steal my underwear, I'd probably be pretty upset too. I went into the adjacent living room and picked up the phone.

"Regent Beverly Wilshire at the Four Seasons," a man answered. "This is Charles speaking, how may I help you?"

"My name's Detective Lillian Truscott, and I'm with the LA County Sheriff's Department," I introduced, my voice steady and firm. "I'm here with my client, and we came to her suite to find someone had stolen the room card and snuck inside." Charles began to bumble an apology, but I quickly cut him off. "No, no apology can undo an action, sir. However, because of this traumatic experience, I am going to make a few requests which, if not honored, will then have to be addressed by the Sheriff's Department."

"Y-yes ma'am," Charles replied.

"Good. Now, first I want every room card or key to this suite in my possession immediately, as well as a comprehensive list of every employee in this hotel, every guest, and a blueprint of the building. Second, I want the entire floor below us vacant. Third, I want no one allowed access to this floor, or the one below it, without my consent, or the consent of Miss Stewart. Am I clear?"

"Yes."

I sighed. "Good." Satisfied with our communication, I hung up the phone. With the suite being quite expansive, I reasoned that it would be in my best interest to stay in the same room as Miley. I slowly begin to unpack all of my clothes, sparce as they may be, and load them into the generous boudoir the second bedroom had provided. I unload all of my surveillance equipment. A few small cameras that feed to my laptop, a few audio bugs, and a small, personal GPS tracker that costs me a small fortune. It can be adhered to anything, and will work literally anywhere.

Once I was entirely unpacked, I set about putting up a few cameras in the main rooms. I bugged each room, including a quick, silent bug in Miley's bedroom where she was sound asleep, and retreated back to my room to check the feeds. After testing them thoroughly, I began to undress. A full-length vanity mirror attached to the boudoir allowed me a rather unpleasant 360-degree view of my body. I was in great shape, don't misunderstand. I had been pretty skinny as a kid, and my surfing and skateboarding helped keep that figure. As a benefit of my training and service, though, I had defined some muscle throughout my body. However, Afghanistan had not been an entirely friendly place to my body. I had a long, jagged scar that stretched from just underneath my left breast, wrapped around my waist, and trailed off toward the base of my spine. The emergency triage meds had done an exceptional job piecing me back together, but unfortunately the half-inch wide scar was a constant reminder of my horrid last few hours on duty.

As I stood in my long, black drawstring pants and black sports bra, I suddenly became aware I was being watched. Ever vigilant, my eyes went from my holster, now sitting on my dresser, to the doorway, where a sleep-ridden Miley stood. "What's that from?"

I looked down toward my scar, then back up to the green-eyed woman leaning on my doorjamb. She had changed into a deep violet negligee that left little to the imagination. There was a lace trim that went from the center of her cleavage, led to a cinch by her waist, then plunged to just below her pelvis, where the material split. I found myself gawking at her tanned, toned dancer's legs. I blushed a nice shade of rose, and put my hands on my hips. "Excuse me?" I was caught off-guard by her sudden appearance, and just more than a little turned on.

Miley nodded toward my scar. She then closed the distance between us, tracing her fingers on where the scar crossed over my ribcage. My eyes fluttered closed at the contact. "Where did you get this?"

My teeth protruded to bit my lower lip, and I squeezed my eyes shut. "War." Not just war, but the most bloody, horrible day in battle I had ever experienced. "Got a little too close to the enemy," I remarked bitterly.

Miley winced at my rather frank choice of words. "Tell me what happened," Miley asked, her eyes never tearing away from my marred skin. When I didn't respond, she looked up at me.

I fought back tears and stepped backward, away from her touch. "I'd rather not," I admitted, trying not to hurt the woman's feelings. I cleared my throat. "You should get some sleep, Miley. You have a full day of rehearsals, and I have to map out the security detail for your concert." I snatched my white wifebeater from my suitcase and tugged it on. "Good night."

Miffed I had dismissed her, Miley turned on her heel quickly and stormed out of my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. With an aggravated sigh I opened it. I wanted to have as quick access to her room as I could, in case of an emergency.

A knock at the door distracted me and I went to the main room to open it. Charles, the meek bellman handed me a large envelope. "Here are all the cards and keys. We will just need to be allowed in to clean --"

"Yeah, I'll arrange it," I interrupted impatiently. "Do you have the blueprint?" Charles nodded and handed me a rolled-up map. "Employee list?" A long payroll form was handed to me. "And the floor beneath us?"

"Totally vacant. There were two guests down there, and we bumped them up to a different suite." Having expected me to be impressed, and deflated when I simply stared at him, Charles coughed. "Anything else, Detective?"

I shook my head. "That's everything, Chuck. Thanks." I practically slammed the door in his face, whirling around to return to my bedroom. I spent the rest of the night marking points of entry and exit, marking them for future reference.

--

_You get the best of both worlds...chill it out, take it slow. Then you rock out the show. You get the best of both words...mix it all together and you know you've got the best of both worlds..._

Miley's voice rang clearly through the theater during her second day of rehearsals. Today, apparently, was the addition of back-up dancers and some of the pyrotechnics and special effects Miley was going to employ. I had laid out the blueprint of the theater with the rookies and Miley's security to go over with me. While they sorted out which one of them was going to guard what, my eyes drifted upward toward the stage from the audience.

She was breathtaking. So entirely in her element as she shook and shimmied her way across the stage, belting her heart out. Every so often, I'd catch her gaze, and my heart would constrict. But just as quickly she would look away, and even though the house lights were on, and we could be seen, I knew she wasn't truly looking at me.

We hadn't spoken at all in the morning before coming to the theater. I assumed she was still mad I had kicked her out of my room. The story of how I acquired my scar was one I did not enjoy to tell. I had been forced to relive it several times to my superiors in the army, again to the government, and once to a journalist. It was a story I had perfected telling, but refused to speak once I was officially relieved of my duties. Even Oliver had not been able to get me to tell him; he read it in the New York Times, like everyone else.

Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I stared back down at the map. "Is it done? Have you all figured out where you're going to stand?" There were several nods around the circle. "Good. Write your name at your location."

"And where are you gonna be?" the large man whom I had beaten asked.

I pointed up to the stage. "I play guitar." Everyone gave me a wide-eyed stare before I smiled, breaking out onto laughter. "I'm kidding." Each man looked at each other uneasily. I really had intimidated them. This made me smile wider. "I'll be off to stage right," I said, pointing on the map. "Roughly here, so I can watch Miley."

"I'd like to watch Miley," one of the younger officers remarked, getting laughs all around.

"Shut the --" I began.

"Heck up!" Robbie finished, smacking the young guard on the back of the head. "Or I will make you guard the bathroom." The officer nodded, and Robbie came around our makeshift table toward me. "How are you, Miss Truscott?"

I shrugged. "Good." I looked up at Robbie, and he must've read my expression and he smiled warmly.

"She's been trouble, hasn't she?" Robbie asked, looking up at the stage to Miley.

"No, not really," I admitted. "I haven't been completely forthright with her, about my service, and I think she's used to getting what she wants." Robbie rolled his eyes bemusedly. "Am I right?"

Robbie smirked. "She doesn't know about what you did? In your service?" Robbie crossed his arms over his chest. "And you wonder why she doesn't trust you?" The mustachioed man shook his head. "Miley...Miley is one of the most honest women I've ever met in my life. She's always been a straight-forward, heart on her sleeve kind of gal." The two of us watched Miley as she performed. "Ever since she was a little girl. After her mother died, Miley made everyone believe she was okay, but she wasn't. I knew it, her brother knew it, but she withdrew." Robbie sighed. "The Miley you know, she's ...she's different."

"Different?" I inquired. Miley seemed like the typical pop star brat to me.

Robbie nodded. "Very different. Hannah Montana...that was Miley. Upbeat, extroverted, smiling all the time." A wistful smile came upon his face as he remembered his darling girl. "She never stopped singing, though. So I always think there's hope, you know?" He looked at me, and I nodded politely in response. "If she can bring Hannah out, then I know it's somewhere there inside of her."

Miley finished her song and hopped offstage, grabbing a towel from one of the roadies. As she wiped off the sheen of sweat she had accumulated, I couldn't help but stare. It was as if someone followed her around, constantly air brushing her to look gorgeous. I became aware that I was standing right next to her father, and I lowered my gaze to the floor.

"Hey, Daddy. How'd that look?" Miley asked, canting her head toward the stage. She pointedly ignored my existence, her eyes glued to her father.

"Great, Miles," Robbie replied, hanging an arm around his daughter. "The dancers look great."

"What did you think, Detective?" Miley asked, looking to me. The way she addressed me, I knew she was simply entertaining her father. Well, two can play at that game.

"It was okay," I replied. "No offense. Pop music just..isn't my thing. I'm more of a rock music kind of girl," I explained with a shrug. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work." With that I left toward the group of officers horsing around next to the stage. I clapped loudly to get their attention and put them to work running their shifts.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Miley as she yelled something at her father, then stormed off. A satisfied smirk on my face, I allowed the pop star to storm into her dressing room. Only a few minutes later, Miley stormed out. "Where the fuck is she?" My head snapped up, looking to the irate star. I was alone in a small green room, checking the vents. She stalked up to me, shoving a piece of paper into my hands. "You're _supposed _to be protecting me!"

"I am," I replied, raising my eyebrow.

"Oh really?" Miley asked, lowering her voice. "Explain this, then," Miley said, shoving the paper into my hands. My eyes only took a moment before I recognized the type. It was a ransom note. Of course, ransom notes were far more sophisticated today. Magazine clippings, newspaper cutouts, they were all traceable. This was on a standard sheet of white paper, Times New Roman font. In the center, was only this: "Soon. You can't run for long, Miley."

My mouth hung open as I read the note, over and over, studying it. I had to bring it to the station. "Miley, I'm so sorry."

Miley wasn't listening, however. She had sunk into the sofa, head buried deep in her hands. I didn't hear any noise, so I looked over at her. She wasn't crying. I went over to her, and she came at me. Hands waving madly, she gripped my shoulders and pushed me hard against the wall. I allowed her to do this, keeping my temper in check. "How could you let this happen to me?" she asked, slamming me against the wall again. "How could you?"

I clenched my fists. "Miley, stop. Hurting me is not going to help you." Miley slammed me once more and I quickly disarmed her, wrenching her arms as painlessly as I could behind her back. I kept her wrists hostage behind her, and leaned to talk directly into her ear. "Calm down, Miss Stewart," I ordered. I felt her tense underneath my touch, and I could've sworn I felt a shiver as I spoke into her ear. "I will find out who did this. But you need to not let it get to you like this. This is what they want. Keep. Your. Cool."

I let her go, releasing my grip on her wrists. What I said must've gotten through to her, but she didn't acknowledge me. She simply walked out and back into her dressing room, slamming the door shut behind her. Heaving a large sigh, I stared back down at the paper. I needed to have someone get this to forensics. Whoever was doing this, they were good. And they were escalating.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: First off, all of your reviews had made my week. You guys are the best. I'm trying not to bore you too much as I build up the plot. Second, I did a little title change. It was brought to my attention (by patricia51, thanks again! D ) that I had confused the chain of command in the Sheriff's department. So, instead of doing a complete reorganization, the changes are as follows: Sheriff Hodes is now Chief Hodes, head of the Detective Bureau. And the so far nameless "Chief" is now Sheriff Hansen, head of the entire LA County Sheriff Department, and she's a woman.**

**And Nice was great. If anyone gets a chance to see France, fuck Paris. Go to Nice.**

Hours later, I found myself back at the station, pouring over a few files I had tucked away. Every time someone was held for ransom, we investigated not only the clues, but also the person being held. It dawned on me that I knew nothing about Miley. I had made all these presumptions about her, but did not take the time to properly research her. So, in the time that Miley had convinced her father to go with her on a shopping spree, and somehow convinced him that I was not needed, I went back to the station to do a little digging.

First, of course, were the pages upon pages of "fan sites" dedicated to Hannah Montana. They chronicled her public life from breakout pop star at age fifteen, to beautiful, versatile artist now, eleven years later. The mere fact that her career spanned longer than five seconds was impressive to me. However, due to Robbie Ray's hounding of the press, there was virtually no information on Miley Stewart. In fact, a Google search only came up with, "Did you mean _Emily Stewart_?" Who was, in fact, a fictional character on As the World Turns.

So, I put my detective skills to work, and went through the government database. Miley Ray Stewart, born May 12, in Franklin, Tennessee. Graduated Malibu High School with a respectable 3.7 GPA, scored 1950 out of 2400 on her SATs. As I scrolled through her tax records, I realized she must not have gone to college. It made me wonder, though. With all the new technology, and our fascination with celebrities, why people still thought Hannah Montana was a real person? Didn't anyone dig a little, to find out that Hannah Montana is just a trademark? I knew her celebrity friends were aware, because she answered the phone as "Miley" when they called. But still, for some reason, she just had to take off her wig, remove some makeup, and to the world, she was an unrecognizable every-woman.

My eyes drifted back to the large, blown-up photo of the ransom note on my desk. "Soon," I said aloud. "You can't run for long, Miley." They knew. Whoever these people were, they knew Hannah Montana was Miley.

My brain suddenly stopped. Malibu High School. 1997. It was the year I graduated...and Miley's freshman year. We attended school together, I realized slowly. My hand immediately went to my phone as I dialed Oliver's cell phone.

"Oken," he answered tiredly. I heard through several of my young officers that Oliver had been taking on extra cases, stretching himself a little thin because Chief Hodes was on his case about working toward a promotion.

"Hey, Oliver, I have a quick question," I said, not bothering to introduce myself. More than twenty years of friendship; he recognized my voice. "Did we go to school with a Miley Stewart?"

Oliver sighed, and I heard the creaking of a chair as it groaned beneath his weight. "Um, what year was she?"

"Freshman," I replied quickly. "When we were Seniors."

Oliver let out another sigh, but it was a good sign he was thinking. After a few moments of silence, Oliver spoke up. "She was in the gym with us, Senior year," Oliver said slowly. "And, um, Lilly, we graduated with her brother."

"What?" I asked, racking my memory. "Oh dear crap on an altar, her brother is Jackson Stewart."

Oliver tried to stifle his laughter, but he burst out in laughter, and I could just see him clutching his stomach in laughter. "You dated him!"

I burned a bright red as the memory of my ill-fated attempt at being heterosexual came flooding back to me. Jackson did mention having a younger sister. However, we didn't get far enough into our relationship for me to meet his family. "Yeah, wow, the world is small." I rubbed my forehead. Knowing we graduated from the same high school, attended school, and were even connected by some six degrees of separation did not help me to figure out who Miley was, or who would want to hurt her.

"So why the questions? Does she have something to do with the case?" Oliver asked, and I winced. I couldn't tell him. Not yet.

"Nothing, I was just curious. Thanks, Ollie," I said, hanging up the phone without further explanation. Jackson. If I could get in touch with him, perhaps I could get some inside information about Miley. Robbie didn't seem to keen on Miley's life, but I'm sure she confided in her brother. Making up my mind to give Jackon a call, I found his address and phone number.

I dialed the number slowly, feeling slightly anxious, and totally awkward. "Howdy," the cheery voice answered, and I couldn't help but smile.

"Jackson, it's um..Lilly Truscott, from Malibu High School?" I introduced, cringing.

Jackson paused a moment. "Lilly! The skater girl? I read the article on you in the Times," Jackson informed rapidly. His voice dropped in sympathy. "I'm so sorry about what happened."

"Uh, thanks, but that's not why I'm calling. I'm the bodyguard for your sister, and I need to know a little bit about her." I cut to the chase. I didn't want Jackson to misinterpret my call and some kind of 'remember me?' charade.

Jackson sighed. "Not sure I can be of much help, Lilly. Miley and I talk, but, she's pretty secretive about most stuff." He sounded quite despondent about it, and I leaned back into my chair.

I cleared my throat. "I'll be straight with you. I think Miley might be in some kind of danger. And whoever wants to hurt her, knows that she's Hannah Montana. Do you know anyone off-hand who would know that information?"

The blonde man was silent, presumably in thought. "Well, our family does, but they all love Miles. Her assistants, her security, they all know. But outside of that, we try to keep it all hush-hush, you know?"

I nodded, but then realized I was on the phone. I was always doing that! "Yeah, I know. It's just...Miley is very distant, and clearly we're not getting along, so I just don't think she'd confide in me. I was hoping if maybe she had received some kind of threats, she'd tell you."

"Probably not. Miley doesn't confide in anyone anymore," Jackson lamented. "I guess I'd look at her assistants and the security. I mean, they are the only people who know Miley is Hannah and aren't related." I let out a long sigh and Jackson spoke up once more. "Look, Lilly, your best bet with Miley, is to just treat her like anyone else. Everyone either kisses her ass or thinks she's an idiot. She's not the type of person who enjoys ass-kissin', or an idiot. And she loves shoes. That's how you get her to talk to you."

"Shoes?" I asked.

Jackson laughed. "And talking. When you're that famous, you're surrounded by people. They get paid to listen to you, but they don't _want_ to. It's their job. Miles always struggled with that. She wanted friends so badly when she was growing up, but they couldn't know about Hannah, and everyone she met as Hannah, only wanted to know her as Hannah. Left her in quite the pickle."

It never occurred to me how lonely Miley might be. I had seen it in action, the 'alone, surrounded by people' thing Jackson was describing. "Well, thanks Jackson. You've actually been more of a help than you know."

"Glad to hear it, Lilly. Take care now," he said, hanging up the phone. I leaned farther back into my chair, heaving a great sigh. I had perhaps jumped the gun on presuming things regarding Miley. I didn't want her to get too close to me; you never know when something was going to happen to you. But there was no rule against just listening to your charge.

Satisfied I had gotten enough information to at least strike up a conversation, I called Robbie and informed him I'd be returning to the theater, and that I expected Miley to be there when I got back. On my way back, I was told that our potential shooter had refused to talk, and was in the midst of being deported. For some reason, I downplayed his importance in my head. Whoever was sending Miley notes, they were being secretive, elusive. Brandishing a gun in the middle of a crowded theater just screamed brazen. It just didn't seem to fit.

I arrived at the theater just moments before Miley. The security guards radioed each other as they saw Miley, watching her every movement. I narrowed my eyes.

"Hey, Miley," I greeted, hoping to form a genuine smile. The shopping-bag toting brunette seemed caught off-guard by my friendliness, and squinted her eyes, as if trying to make sure it was the right person. "Get any shoes?"

Miley let out a short, curt laugh. "Are you serious?"

"I seriously want to know if you had a good time, if that's what you're asking," I replied, trying my hardest. But even as I said it, it didn't feel right. I was pushing our friendliness. But maybe that's what we needed -- a little push.

Miley shrugged her shoulders, handing her bags to her father, who grunted at the new weight. "It was okay. Pretty much the same stuff every day, you know?"

I peered at the plethora of bags. "Looks like you made out like a bandit, though."

Miley took a short glance at the bags and shrugged once more, "That's not much. Just some essentials."

_You would've lasted five seconds in the desert_, I thought to myself with a cringe. But instead of verbalizing my put-down, I smiled. "Well, good. I have some ulterior motives for my candor," I said slowly. "I need to talk to you," I glanced at Robbie, "privately."

"Okay," Miley agreed, allowing me to lead her through the theater and toward the dressing room. "If this is about that note, I don't want to talk about it," Miley mumbled, closing the door to the dressing room behind us.

I sighed, standing in front of the door. I did not want her to have an easy escape. "It is. Obviously it is. That note is very serious, Miley. It's imperative for your safety that we find out who or what is behind this."

Miley shifted her weight uncomfortably, before finally taking a seat in her chair that sat in front of her vanity mirror. She whirled around to face me. The space between us was so large, it bordered on symbolic. "I told you I don't want to talk about it."

I took a long, deep breath, trying to recall Jackson's advice. "Miley, we have to." I took a few steps forward. Now for a different approach. "I know you don't trust people." I paused, taking another bold step forward. "I know that you have all your secrets locked way deep down inside you, and it would take someone a lot closer to you than me to release them. But now it's not just Miley versus the world, or Hannah versus Miley; this is real life. This is life or death. We don't know who these people are, or what they're capable of. Heck, they could be here right now."

Miley scoffed. "So much for bringing in the brigade then, huh?"

"You're not listening. You're staring at me with your beautiful eyes but you're not fucking listening to me," I repeated, quite frustrated. Off Miley's surprised look, I backtracked over my words. ...I called her eyes beautiful. Maybe if I glossed over it, she wouldn't remember. "My point is, Miley, that now, more than ever, I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that for me?"

Miley nodded solemnly, a dazzling sparkle behind her hues, and a small smile on her face. "Sure."

"Good," I said with finality. I grabbed a nearby chair and sat directly in front of her, my back to the door. "Now, have you ever received any threats before? Verbal or written?" Miley shook her head 'no.' "And the day, with your tire, was that the first time something like that had happened?" She shook her head 'yes,' that smile still plastered on her features. "Where were you that day?"

"I was at a mall, signing autographs. I parked in the underground parking garage, changed into Hannah, signed autographs, changed again, and went back down. Got in my car, drove off, and got about five or six miles before the tire ran out of air." Miley looked slightly away, trying to remember each moment.

I nodded. "Good, that's good. I'm going to need you to write all of this down. With details. What time you arrived, where you parked, how long you were gone, etcetera. I'll get the information on everyone who was in that mall. Everyone I can track, at least," I said.

"Are we done?" Miley asked, her voice free of venom. She seemed to genuinely want to change the topic.

"Yeah, sure. Just write all of this down at the hotel, okay?" I heard one of the techs calling Miley's name from the hallway.

Miley nodded. Finally she stood up, and as I went to do the same, she came down, putting both her outstretched arms on either side of my chair, effectively pinning me to my seat. "So, you think my eyes are beautiful, huh?" she asked, that small smile she bore moments ago stretching into a feral grin. I closed my eyes a moment, then opened my mouth to speak. Before I could, I felt a small finger press over my lips. My eyes shot open. "You're not so bad yourself," Miley said, pushing herself up. As she walked around the chair, she dragged her index finger over the length of my arm, "Detective."

Why was she..? Did she just...? Did I imagine...? Questions swirled around in my brain as I felt a shudder run through my body. The hairs on my arm stood at attention, goosebumps pushing them upward. I wanted to speak her name, but the slamming of the door behind her shut me up.

We went through the rest of the day without speaking another word to each other. I could've sworn that Miley was giving me superfluous glances from the stage, but again, through my libido-ridden haze, I could've imagined that. Our ride back to the hotel was silent, and I could barely breathe, with all the tension.

Miley went immediately to her desk, and began scribbling down the events of the first day we met in the rain. I admired her assertiveness in her task, and left her to her own devices to go back into my room and review the bugs I had left in the room.

A few moments later, she came up behind me, placing a hand gently on the back of my chair. She leaned over my right shoulder to place the paper on my desk. "I hope this helps," Miley said quietly, quickly retreating toward my door.

"Miley," I called over my shoulder. I heard the cease of footsteps and inhaled a sharp breath. "Nothing. Good night." I heard Miley expel a breath she had been holding in, and I sighed, crossing my arms on the desk and resting my forehead on them. For the first time, I almost wished we were still at each other's throats. At least then I'd know what to do.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: Thanks to all for the absolutely wonderful feedback. Admitedly, I lost a little momentum while I was working on this chapter. So, for the sake of the story, I moved things forward a little bit with my plot. This chapter is a little shorter than most, but definitely ...very important. Please review! It certainly makes my day.

--

Tonight was the first concert. I hadn't seen Miley since last night, mostly because my top priority was securing the theater. I arrived there at around 8AM, and there were already Hannah Montana fans waiting outside. My men had done a good job of roping off areas for the rabid fans to wait, and for the most part they were relatively quiet.

I parked my car close to the exit and strode up to meet John, the officer I had put in charge of corralling the fans. "Wow," I said, looking at the long row of girls in sleeping bags, tents, chairs, and some just sitting cross-legged on the cement. "How long have they been there?"

John yawned. "Since about four am, Detective," he replied, giving the girls a wary look. "They're insane."

I shrugged, giving him a small smile. "They're kids, and she's their idol. If I thought getting up at four am would secure me a front-row seat, I'd do it, too." With that I went inside, where roadies were bustling about, setting up for Miley's final dress rehearsal. The show was to begin at 6pm sharp, with no opening act. Miley was doing two forty-five minute sets, with one fifteen minute intermission for a small break, set and costume change, and a security reorganization.

While Miley was getting dressed, I called a briefing of for all of her closest staff. Her two personal assistants, Kim and Perry, her father, and her two former bodyguards. Each person filed into the green room, sitting down in various places throughout the room.

"Morning, everyone," I greeted, receiving no response other than a cough or two. "I called you all here to discuss a matter of utmost importance." I glanced around the room, making sure I had everyone's attention. "Miley received a threat, typed on a piece of paper and left in her dressing room." I put a hand up to silence the uproar of voices. "Quiet," I ordered in my most stern tone. "Now, I have sent the paper to my forensics team to be analyzed, and I'm waiting on the results. Now, I am informing you all because if I am not around Miley, she needs to be supervised. Everyone allowed backstage is wearing one of the lanyards you all have on. If you see someone without the pass, stop them immediately and escort them to an officer. We cannot take any chances. If you think you see something suspicious, tell me or any officer. I have a radio," I produced the radio from my holster, "so I can be in contact with any guard or officer at all times. Should you need me, I will be off to stage right as Miley performs."

Robbie shook his head. "How long have you known?" He looked slightly hurt, betrayed.

"Two days," I informed quickly. "I have no time to explain the note. You all just need to know that I do believe Miley may be in danger. So it's is up to all of you," I scanned the room with my eyes, "to protect her. It is your job, it is your obligation. If you fail to do this, I will personally have you removed from not only the theater, but Miley's staff as well. Am I clear?"

The heads in the room nodded, looking bewildered by my speech. Kim, Miley's closest assistant, spoke up. "Are we in danger, too?"

I shook my head. "I doubt it. I think whoever is doing this has a personal vendetta against Miley. And that's why it's of paramount importance to protect her." Once again, all heads nodded. "Good. Now that we're on the same page, everyone go back to doing what it is you're being paid to do. Thank you."

Everyone filed out slowly, making conversation with one another. Robbie stopped in front of me, his face etched with worry. "Tell it to me straight, Lilly, is my baby girl in real danger? Does this have to do with the guy who brought that gun in here? 'Cos if I have to sit on the stage with a shot-gun, by golly I will."

I smiled at Robbie's solution, more than a little amused at the image of a Robbie Ray sitting off to the side of the stage, shotgun resting on his lap. "Miley is in real danger. But no, I don't believe it has anything to do with Ilya bringing a gun in here. I think that was either some sort of distraction, or an unfortunate coincidence. But it's been my experience that coincidences do not exist."

Robbie's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "I'm confused. So..you do think they're connected, or you don't?"

"I think if they are connected, he was a hired goon, and not anywhere near the actual culprits. He is not what worries me." I sighed, looking up at the handsome, worried father of two. "I'm worried about the enemy I can't see."

--

Miley was phenomenal. I watched her from the wings of the stage, my eyes glued to her bouncing form for the good portion of her concert. I stayed vigilant, my eyes scanning the crowds, even somewhat backstage, just to make sure nothing looked out of place. But Miley...she was born to do this. There are just moments in your life where you know that you are absolutely supposed to be in your situation. The second I put away my first perp as a deputy, I knew that exacting justice was what I was born to do. I felt high as a kite, but as serene as the most placid of lakes.

Miley had that look about her when she paraded around the stage. That look of pure, unadulterated exhilaration. I couldn't help but smile as I watched her end the first act to riotous applause. Miley disappeared into the labyrinth beneath the stage to begin her costume change.

I began to radio some of the officers, explaining their next moves. The next forty-five minutes were crucial to helping ease the end-of-concert traffic that would inevitably occur. Miley was scheduled to re-emerge from under the stage ten minutes later, then take the next five minutes to have a breather. I checked my watch. Eleven minutes.

A small wave of panic crept into my heart, and I pushed it out. I did a rapid sweep of the backstage area, and found no trace of Miley. My heart pounded loudly in my ears. I used a small staircase and descended downstairs. I had only been down here a few times to map it out. A few lights were out, making the winding hallways difficult to see in. I drew my gun, criss-crossed my wrists to hold my flashlight below my piece. I heard nothing. No scramble of footsteps, no voices, nothing. There should have been people down here.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood. Something was wrong. I checked my watch; sixteen minutes. I could hear the roar of the crowd above my head. I heard a shuffle to my right. I turned slowly, aiming my flashlight at a small stage door. I tried to remember what this room was. I was almost positive it had been a janitorial closet.

With great care, I slowly pushed the creaking door open, immediately pushing my gun forward into the room. My flashlight's beam met four panicked faces, all of whom had been gagged. Each were bound to a chair, their hands and feet tied. There was no time. I ripped the gag off one of them -- Miley's hairdresser, if I had remembered correctly. "Where did she go?"

The scared man shook, trying to stammer out an answer. "They took her. They went to the back exit." I left immediately in that direction, ignoring the shout of "help us!" that resounded behind me. I pulled out my radio. "All units, all units, emergency. Lock all exits, turn on all house lights. I repeat, this is an emergency. Miley has been --"

My words were cut off by a hand snatching my radio. It fell to the floor. I pointed my flashlight and saw the masked man who had taken it. "LA County Sheriff's department," I announced, and the man began to flee. I ran after him. "Stop!" I followed him out to an exit I had never seen before.

We emerged somewhere behind the theater, and I immediately felt sick. Miley was bound, being roughhoused by some goon. She was struggling against him, but my the torn parts of her outfit, and her wig that was now crumpled on the pavement, it was obvious she wasn't going anywhere. I leveled my gun at the man holding Miley, but my gun was immediately kicked from my grasp.

Three men tackled me from behind, and I fell unceremoniously to the ground, the force of their weight pressing my face hard into the gravel. I could feel the hot stickiness of blood pooling on my cheek. I was yanked up, then stripped of my holster. The men never spoke a word. I wrenched against them, only to be pistol-whipped in the cheek. Somewhere, I heard Miley scream. Part of the gun hit my temple, and I felt myself getting dizzy. In my weakened state, I couldn't struggle as one of them bound my hands behind my back with the plastic quasi-handcuffs we sometimes used at the station.

No, I needed to protect Miley. I tried forcing them to walk toward her, but I was then met with a hard fist to my jaw. I spat blood onto the ground. "Let me fucking go!" I screamed, only to my cold-cocked on the jaw once more. I spewed blood once more from my mouth.

"Please, stop!" Miley begged, and I looked up. She was screaming at my captors, not at hers. For her shout she was knocked out cold. Anger flooded my senses. With this new shot of adrenaline I wrenched myself away from my captors. As they pushed Miley into the car, I lifted my foot, slamming it into the crotch of the man who had punched her.

"Bitch," was the only word I heard before I too was struck hard, and tossed into the back of the unmarked black vehicle. One of two such vehicles, I had noticed.

I could feel her presence, smell her, from where I was on the seat. As I sat up in my seat, trying to gain my bearings, I realized the car was moving. I heard Miley moan beside me, and I felt a small spark of hope.

"Miley?" I whispered. I could barely see her; the windows were tinted, and there were no lights on in the car. There also must have been some kind of divider between the front and backseat, because there was no residual light from a radio dial, or speedometer. The air was also hot, and not being circulated properly.

After a few moments, I felt Miley sit up beside me. Her weight was fully resting on my shoulder. "Lilly?" I heard, in the smallest voice imaginable.

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Miley, are you okay? Are you bleeding?" My hands were still bound behind me, and I couldn't check her for cuts. Instead, I used my lips and traced from her chin to her temple, and I felt only a small swell on her cheekbone. "You're not cut. You've just got a little bump."

"I'm fine," Miley said, her voice somewhat normal, but still very low. "They hit you," Miley said, as if just remembering only moments ago. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. "I'm pretty sure I'm bleeding, but I don't have a concussion, so it's fine." I began to shift my weight, and eventually brought my hands from underneath my butt, around my legs, to in front of me. They were still bound, but at least I could touch things.

Miley tried to do the same, but getting yourself into the position I did took training. It was part of my training as a Marine. Getting kidnaped is always a possibility, so I knew almost every way imaginable to break free. "How did you do that?"

"Years of practice," I replied quickly, as my hands tried to pull at the car's handle. The locks had been removed from near the window, now only accessible from the outside of the car. I grunted in frustration. "What happened back there?"

Either by accident or intentionally, the window behind Miley slid open just a crack. Just enough for the dim light of a passing street lamp to briefly illuminate inside the back of the car. I saw Miley, her face twisted in panic. Her hair was disheveled, a far cry from the usually well-manicured Miley of only a few hours ago. Her bump was bruising slightly, but she would live. I watched as her eyes widened in horror. "Lilly...your face."

I scrunched my nose, unable to feel any pain as I did so. I looked at Miley. "What?"

"You're...all scratched up..and your lip is bleeding." I darted my tongue out and felt the tangy, metallic taste of blood. She was right. I watched as tears began to well in the pop star's eyes. "What's going to happen to us?"

I shook my head. "I don't know, Miley, I really don't," I admitted, hanging my head. I had failed her. My eyes fluttered closed. This was the exact thing I had been working so hard to prevent, and yet even I had become a victim to whoever had decided to kidnap Miley.

I suddenly felt a warmth on my chest. Miley had shifted to sit next to me, her head now buried in the crook of my neck. I could feel her hot tears as they wet my shirt. "I'm so sorry," Miley whispered. Despite the extremity of the situation, I still felt the small stir of arousal as she placed her head on my shoulder, her lips now pressed against the side of my neck.

I furrowed my eyebrows. How could this possibly be her fault? "Shh," I cooed, kissing the top of her head. "We're going to be okay. I'm not going to let them hurt you." And I wasn't. Even if it meant bringing down every last one of those assholes, and myself, I wasn't going to let them touch her again.

Miley pushed herself further into my shoulder. I felt her tongue sweep across her lips, then the firm pressure of those same lips against my neck. I couldn't help an involuntary shudder at the quite intimate gesture. "Keep me safe," Miley asked in a whisper, her breath hot against my neck.

"I promise," I assured her, my eyes now fixed on the crack in the window. I was going to get us out of this situation, one way or the other. I didn't know what this meant for Miley and I, but I forced those thoughts from my mind. Right now, I couldn't entertain my more selfish desires. I had a task at hand. I began to mentally prepare myself for the mission ahead: Escape.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: No tengo nada.**

**Author's Note: Obrigada for the great feedback. I love hearing what you guys have to say about my little story. Feel free to message me any concerns or questions/comments; I obsessively check my e-mail. A palm pilot was a bad idea.**

I could hear the ocean. I checked my watch, it was 4am. My face was sore. The strangled cries of seagulls, and thunderous crash of the ocean meeting land were the only sounds I could hear from inside. The car slowed to a stop, and my senses perked. I had seven hours to formulate a plan, but it was all riding on where they put us, and why we were being taken. I shook Miley awake.

"Miley, wake up," I hissed, getting a groan in response. "Wake. Up!" I insisted.

Miley's eyes opened, and I watched in her eyes as the memories of last night flooded back to her. Those large green orbs widened in fear. "Where are we?"

I shrugged. "Somewhere near the ocean. No lack of that in California." I tried half-heartedly to make a joke, but Miley's face assured me I was not funny. Well, fine, I thought. Back to business. "It's four in the morning. But look, everyone knows we're gone. Kidnaping is a felony, and kidnaping an officer is a federal offense. They're going to find us, we just have to stay alive until then." Even I knew the words coming out of my mouth were heavier than I conveyed. Staying alive would not happen by wishing it.

Miley nodded solemnly, but her eyes were distant. Whatever she was thinking about, it must've truly upset her because her face was contorted into such sadness. I took that as my cue to talk once more. "Miley, if we get separated, just...give them whatever they want. Money, information, whatever. You're the prize here, I was just collateral. I will get us out. You just try and not get hurt, please?" I hoped I hadn't come across as too desperate, or too obvious. But I knew that if something happened to Miley..I wasn't sure what I would do.

The brunette seemed like she had a small epiphany, the way her eyes were lighting up. "Lilly, can I ask you a question?" Miley asked suddenly, looking toward me. I nodded for her to go ahead. She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly the driver and passenger side doors slammed closed. It wasn't long before our doors opened, and two men pulled us each out of our respective doors.

I looked around. The mere fact that we hadn't been blindfolded was a big warning sign for me. To allow us to see where we were, well, that usually meant that we were going to be killed. We atop some sort of cliff, and below us was the ocean. In the distance I could see a marina, but I had no time to try and figure out where we were because we were dragged up into a beach house.

The house was decorated sparsely, but did not look lived in. We were taken into the main room, which had two large sliding glass doors. Two chairs sat back-to-back in the center of the room. My stomach dropped. As I expected, we were escorted to these chairs. One of the men looked down and saw I had maneuvered my handcuffs in front of me. I smirked at him. He withdrew a knife and swiftly cut the handcuffs open, then pushed me back into the chair, binding each of my hands to a side of the chair. Once both our hands and feet were bound, without a word, all the men left the room.

Miley and I sat in silence, the only sound that could be heard was the slight vibration of my binds against the chair as I trembled. "Lilly?" Miley must've heard it, too. "Lilly, are you okay? I can feel you shaking."

My eyes were screwed shut as I forced down the bile that rose in my throat. "Yes," I managed through my teeth. This whole situation, it brought back terrible memories for me. I began to focus on my breathing, not wanting to lose my clarity. I heard Miley sigh, and I knew she didn't believe me. Now was as good a time as any to explain to her my story. "When I was at war, she was held prisoner like this." I shuddered. "Exactly like this."

Miley gasped softly. "What happened?"

I sighed. "We were ambushed."

_Bombs exploded overhead as my fireteam stuck to their positions. Our last mission was supposed to be routine. The terrorists that lived in this area were supposed to be unorganized. But by the hail of gunfire and bombs exploding, it was easily determined they were not._

_Emily and I had our backs to one of our tanks, and I was busy reloading my gun. I crouched again, now faced toward the fire, and began shooting in the direction the shots were coming from. Only one stream of bullets ceased. "Got ya, motherfucker," I announced proudly, ducking back down. As I checked over my shoulder, I felt a presence get closer to me. I looked to my right and Emily snatched off my helmet, hers already removed, and pressed her lips against mine. She put her helmet back on and secured it tightly, and I did the same._

_"Lilly, I promise, whatever happens, I will find you." Without another word we ran, together, in the direction of the fire. When we had approached this front initially, I had assumed there were only about ten men here. As Emily and I ran around the back of the small abandoned building they were using, we realized there were a lot more._

_I grabbed Emily and dragged her backwards., causing her to fall behind a tank. "Stay here," I barked. I knew she was going to protest. "That's an order, Walker." _

_I knew the building before us was a trap. If we all went in there, we'd all die. I gave my orders for my team to stay back, and I entered the building. The inside smelled like gunpowder, mold, and unwashed men. I knew I was at a distinct disadvantage, being a stranger in a house full of killers, but I also knew that most of them were busy with my team outside. _

_As I advanced through the rooms, I quickly took out several of the men. My quick gunfire attracted the attention of more insurgents, and I began my battle. It was to my advantage that they were a little more disorganized than we thought. They had no structure, each man came at me separately, like a video game. With deadly accuracy I took each of them out._

_I descended back downstairs about ten minutes later, only to be confronted by three men, two of whom had Emily. They had her bound to a chair, their hands around her arms, and she had been stripped of her helmet and protective gear. I held my gun level with their heads. "Fucking so much as sneeze on her, and I'll blow your heads off."_

_The men laughed. They pointed a small pistol at her head. "Shoot, and she will die with our last breath." The man's voice was thick, heavy with an Arabian accent. I held the grip on my gun tighter._

_"Your government," one of the man said, emerging from the shadows, "is not coming for you. Nobody gives a SHIT that you're here."_

_I sneered at his smug expression. "At least I have a government. Not just a bunch of pussies who will do whatever NATO says. And they definitely don't give a flying fuck about disgusting, cave-dwelling idiots like you."_

_"Belligerent American," the man spat at me. "Even as you ordered this one to stay back, she followed you in here. Insolent fool." My eyes flickered to Emily, who was still silent. _That's my girl, _I thought. _Give them nothing. _"Now, it is our mission to bring back an American soldier. But you," the man said to me, smirking, "you are far too restless. She'll do just fine."_

_The men went to Emily, lifting her up from her seat, and untying her binds. I grimaced as I watched the men pinch her, and smell her hair. Within a millisecond, my patience was gone. With a flick of my wrist I shot the man holding the pistol directly in the forehead. I turned to the other, but before I had time to think, a felt the sharp plunge of a knife underneath my ribs. It hadn't gone too far, just enough for the tip and a little extra to disappear into my skin. I wrenched away from him, spinning to my right. I cried out in pain as the knife stayed inside, slicing a long line from my ribs, around my waist, to my spine. I collapsed in pain, on all fours on the ground. I was kicked in the stomach, the force of the kick forcing me flat onto the ground. _

_I turned over, only to see Emily gagged and dragged off. I tried to stand but was kicked in the side, just where I had been stabbed. I coughed up more blood. _I failed her_, was my only thought as I blacked out into unconsciousness._

_--_

_I awoke several hours later underneath the tent of an emergency triage unit. My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the new light. I looked around, seeing each member of my unit, except two. Kevin Gringer, he was missing. He was probably dead, I reasoned. And Emily. The desert heat suddenly became unbearable._

_"Emily," I said, loud enough for one of the nurses to turn around. I sat up painfully. She smiled at me, and pushed me back down onto the bed gently. "Where's Emily?"_

_The nurse looked at me quizzically as she checked my vitals. "Emily?"_

_"My Lance Corporal," I elaborated slowly. "There are five on my fireteam. My Lance Corporal Emily Walker, Rifleman Kevin Gringer, Team Leader Frank Ramirez, A-Rifleman Cole O'Brien, and Assist Brian Kim. My team..."_

_The nurse stroked my hair, in an effort to calm me down, I suppose. But I had only anxiousness to give her in response. "Ramirez, O'Brien and Kim are here," she replied. "Gringer is being medi-vacced to a hospital. There are two squads out looking for Walker." The nurse sighed. "You're very lucky to be alive, Truscott. Your wound was very deep. Not to mention the fact that whoever did this to you threw you from a moving truck and left you for dead."_

_I shut my eyes. Emily was dead. She had to be. There was no way they would just take a soldier for fun. It didn't matter what had happened to me, I was still alive. But Emily..._

I snapped back into reality, shaking my head. "They found Emily about a year later in Baghdad, still being held as a prisoner. She explained her story to some journalist, and I saw her at the conference where we all received our decorations. I haven't spoken to her since. I heard through the grapevine and she was FBI now or something."

Miley hadn't spoken a word since I had begun my story. "Lilly," she breathed. "What happened to those guys? The terrorists?"

I shrugged. "The squads looking for Emily actually found them, and annihilated them as far as I know," I informed. "Anyway, I had to tell that story to about a bazillion people, and I got a Medal of Honor for my 'bravery'," I remarked with a sarcastic edge. "Don't get me wrong, I am proud to have served my country, and I damn well deserved that medal, but I didn't save her."

"What else could you have done?" Miley asked, much to my surprise. "They probably would have killed her. You did your best." Miley paused. "That's the bravest thing I've ever heard anybody do." I felt a small touch. Miley had managed to stretch her fingers just far enough to caress the tips of mine. My heart warmed.

I smiled. "It's easy, when you care about something, to give your life for it." Miley began to rub the pads of her fingers against the palm of my hand. It was a sweet gesture, one that made me believe she knew I was referring to her as well. One that sparked a small hope inside me that maybe, just maybe, somewhere deep inside the depths of her heart, maybe she felt something remotely like ...love. I sobered from my thoughts as I recalled the situation we were currently in. I quickly changed the subject. "You know, we almost knew each other years ago."

Miley's fingers drew away from mine, and I felt a distinct cold where they had been. "What?"

"You were a Freshman at Malibu High when I was a Senior." I allowed this information to sink into her before I gave her the real knock-out blow. "And...I kinda sorta dated your brother."

"What?!" Miley yelled, and I 'shhed' her in response. "I'm sorry, but it's not like it's every day when your gorgeous lesbian bodyguard, a former _Marine_, tells you she dated your dorky, awkward, inept, socially retarded brother." My mind was stuck. Did she just call me gorgeous? It was is if Miley was a record, and there was a giant scratch right at that word. It repeated over and over in my head. So much so that I didn't hear the rest of Miley's ramble. "Lilly? When was this?"

"Mine and your brother's Senior year. I had been trying to be straight because I knew I was enlisting soon, and your brother was fun!" Miley groaned. "He was funny!" I defended. "Okay, maybe not a great choice in persuading me to the other side, but still. Good times were had."

Miley made a loud "blech!" noise. "I really, really don't want to know," Miley emphasized, great disdain in her voice.

My eyebrows were raised, as what Miley was implying suddenly dawned on me. "Oh, oh God no. Whatever you're thinking, no. We went on a few dates, saw a few movies, but dear God I didn't let him touch me. I'm not only gay, Miley, but I'm habitually clean. There was nooo way that was happening." Miley laughed, a small "good" escaping her lips. I was able to shift my chair back a few inches so that our chairs touched. I leaned my head backwards, letting it rest on Miley's shoulder. I waited until she looked down at me. "So," I began, a smirk on my face, "you think I'm gorgeous, huh?"

Now it was Miley's turn to flush a deep crimson. She had let that little adjective slip, unintentionally or not, nand I was definitely the type of person to get some payback. "You know, I can't move or anything from here. That's not fair."

I grinned, leaning up to whisper directly into her ear. "That was kind of the point." I felt her shudder. I grinned wider. I unnerved her. Finally, after days of her being able to unravel me, I was finally getting to her. Of course, it couldn't have come at a worse time.

I snapped my head up. Someone was coming. I still hadn't realized a plan. I heard the sound of knuckles cracking, and the men, now with masks removed, entered the room. There was only four of them. They roughly pushed our chairs side by side, and faced us.

"Now, Miley, have you told Lilly why you're here?" the large man asked, the man I assumed to be the alpha of the group. My eyebrows furrowed. The man looked at my reaction with a smug grin. "Oh, she didn't tell you? She didn't tell you that we've met before?" He casually stroked Miley's hair, and I gripped my chair. _Don't touch her, don't touch her, don't touch her._

Miley stiffened, her gaze straight ahead. "I don't know why you brought me here. Look, if you'll just let us go, I can get you whatever money you want --" Miley was cut off by a hard smack to the face. My chair creaked, bringing attention to my now all-consuming rage. _Don't touch her, don't touch her, don't touch her._

The man laughed, looking to me. "Does this bother you?" He continued to twirl Miley's hair, then began to stroke her cheek. I tried desperately to keep my rage in check, but if the wooden splinters on the floor, the consequences of my nails digging into the chair, were any indication, yes, it did bother me. He laughed again. "Oh, Miley, did you spindle someone else into your web?"

I saw Miley's eyes begin to well with tears. My mind was still busy trying to fit all the pieces of the puzzle. The flat tire, the wannabe assassin, the note, our location. It was trying to rearrange all the pieces until they formed a coherent theory, but I was failing at it. Probably due to the distracting amount of hatred I was feeling. "Leave her alone," I heard Miley mutter.

The large man snorted, crouching down next to Miley. "Now now, young Stewart, you know why you're here. You owe us a favor." That sounded awfully mafia like. Miley's body stiffened, and the man spoke again. "You've been trying to escape us for months now, and the boss is getting a little impatient." I didn't speak. You never speak, or reveal anything to a captor. I just watched the display between the two of them, my mind completely boggled by the whole situation.

"I don't owe you a thing. Jackson does," Miley replied. My eyes widened. "I'm not paying off his debt."

The man cleared his throat. "Yes, you will. Because if you don't, we'll kill Jackson. And for fun," the man paused. A younger man came around and pressed the barrel of the gun against my throat. "We'll kill her, too."

Miley's eyes flickered to me in fear. I gave her my most calm gaze, a smirk tugging at my features. While the man had threatened my life, I had heard it. Tapping. It was soft, it was low, but it was certainly deliberate. And it was Morse code. P-O-L-I-C-E it had spelled out. S-T-A-Y-S-T-I-L-L.

Without warning the door broke down, falling flat off its hinges onto the floor. The man all whirled around and fired their guns. But with the quick, deliberate movements of well-trained units, all men were disarmed and handcuffed. Had Miley and I decided to move against our captors, we probably would've been swept up into the crossfire. But Morse code..whoever had given us the warning must've known I had served. Well, I reasoned, anybody with reasonable Googling skills could find that out. But still, it struck me as odd.

Each man was escorted out by a masked, heavily armored agent. But one stayed to attend to Miley and I. He -- or she, I realized, as I felt softer hands untie my binds. "How did you find us?" I asked, curiosity getting the best of me. Once the agent had untied Miley, she lifted off her helmet, and my stomach dropped down to my toes.

Emily smiled. "I told you I'd find you, Truscott. It's not my fault you're a stubborn jackass."


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I own nothing.  
**Author's Note:** **Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I'm sorry this took forever, but inspiration came slowly on this one. I wasn't entirely certain of how I wanted to proceed. I have a new set of things I'd like to happen, but they were all kinda riding on this chapter. So here you are!**

**Lol, and yes, Gryffindor-fire-lion and live2rite, I meant to make Emily's fate ambiguous in the first couple chapters. I had Miley speak of her in past tense, Lilly in present tense so I could bring her around later on and have it be a surprise to everyone. )**

My sheer shock was pushed aside by the rush of excitement that ran through my veins. My Emily...she was here. She had saved me. I sprang up from my chair, rushing into her waiting arms. "I can't believe you're really here," I whispered into her ear through her strands of deep brown hair.

Emily broke the hug, a smile still permanently attached to her face. God, that brilliant smile...I almost forgot Miley was behind us, watching the exchange with an open mouth. "Well, I heard through the wire you had been taken, so I jumped onto the task force. Your forensic team had narrowed down the print type, and within a few hours we had hits. So, we found this place..and now here I am. And here you are." Emily paused, looking around me to Miley. "With ..um, her." Emily's voice was clear of malice, but rife with curiosity.

I blushed. "This is Miley, she's ...well, obviously you know who she is. And Miley, this is the Emily I was telling you about." I turned around and backed up so the two women could see each other. Miley stood up, extending her hand to Emily. They shook hands, and for some reason, I felt the tension inside the room build. Was Miley sizing Emily up? From the look in Miley's eyes, she had lost the contest she was conducting in her head between them.

Emily smiled her thousand-watt smile, releasing Miley's hand. "I know. I'm actually a big fan, Miss Stewart," Emily gushed in a hurried whisper.

"You're actually a big dork, Walker," I reminded with a grin. Emily punched me in the arm. I looked to Miley who hadn't spoken in what seemed like an eternity. My focus turned to her. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" I scanned Miley's body with my eyes for injuries, but I saw none. As my eyes drifted back to Emily, I could tell she was trying to figure out the nature of our relationship. Hell, if she could figure it out, she better tell me.

Miley shook her head. "No, I'm fine." Her eyes flickered to Emily. An uneasy smile came to her lips. "And thank you, Emily. Not for just the compliment, but also the rescue," Miley said, remembering her manners. "If there's anything I can do to repay you, just name it." Miley's voice seemed genuine enough, but I could feel the ice behind her words. It left me with quite an unsettling feeling in my stomach.

Emily blushed, and I found myself smiling stupidly as I stared at her. "Well, if you're ever in the D.C. area, hook me up with some tix," Emily said. "I'd love to see you live."

My eyes turned to Miley, then back to Emily. "You really would," I said. "She's absolutely beyond words. Just...one of the best shows I've ever seen in my life," I admitted. A proud smile came across Miley's face. And, if I dare think it, she shot Emily a 'so there' type stare.

Emily didn't seemed fazed. "Well, if you want, you can come to my concert tomorrow. I mean, I have to do it because people paid some ridiculously big money to see me. So, you're more than welcome to hang backstage and see the concert."

"For real?" Emily asked, smiling widely. "That's awesome. Thank you, Miss Stewart."

"Please, call me Miley," Miley replied, a small, real smile forming on her lips. Emily had that effect on people. Her beautiful smile just radiated through an entire room, lighting it up, and causing people to smile simply in her presence.

"All clear, Walker," another agent said. He looked to me, taking off his helmet. "Corporal Truscott," he saluted me, and I returned the gesture. Off my confused state, he smiled. "I served in the 1/6 Marines, too. Private First Class Josh Lopresti. I was on the squad that found you."

I smiled warmly at him. "Well, thank you. For, um, you know, finding me." I looked desperately to Miley or Emily, to one of them to break the silence.

Miley spoke first. "So, am I getting out of here or what?" Her full-blown bitch attitude was back. I looked at her, surprised. But her steely blue gaze was fixed on the man by the door.

"Let's get Mil--Miss Stewart back home safely," Emily chimed in. The man nodded and escorted Miley out before us. Emily and I followed not too far behind. Miley threw one glance over her shoulder as we were loaded into separate cars. My heart strained.

After hours of statements, testimonies, interrogations, and an amount of papers that would make the Pentagon shut its doors, I finally got a chance to talk to Emily. She had been waiting, now in civilian clothing, for me down at the station. Miley had all but disappeared, claiming a headache and retreating back to the hotel.

Emily stood as I got near to her, and I couldn't help but smile. "They'll want you, and Miley, to testify at the trial in a few months." I nodded, that was fairly routine. I had gotten eight weeks paid leave, which was an extraordinary amount of time, but I figured Chief Hodes just wanted me off his ass for a while.

"So where are you staying?" I asked as we emerged from the station. I didn't want to discuss Miley, or the guilt I was feeling for being this close to Emily, or the kidnap.

Emily grinned. "They put us up in a motel a couple miles from here. Although," she trailed, pulling me in for a whisper, "I'm sure they wouldn't miss me."

I felt myself shudder. God, the effect she still had on me even after all these years. I looked over at her, examining her features. Her eyes were still the exuberant seafoam green I had known, her hair still dark as night. She was a little more muscular than I remembered, but that probably came with years of constant fitness and travel.

"Did I pass inspection?" Emily asked with a laugh, shocking me from my reverie.

I blushed. "It's been a long time, Walker, I'm just making sure it's you. Without the snobby attitude or overbearing over-confidence, I can't be sure." I beamed at my quick response and got a playful shove. "Watch it there. Don't ruin the goods."

Emily smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it." We got into my car, and I began the short drive back to my apartment. We sat in relative silence, unsure of what we could talk about. She probably already knew about my career. "So," Emily began tentatively. "What's the nature of your relationship with Miley?" I gave her a long stare before returning my gaze to the road. "I'm sorry! It's just...you two seemed...close."

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, rolling my neck to try and relieve some of the stress. "I don't know." I looked at Emily, trying to gauge her reaction. "She's...difficult."

Emily laughed a little, shaking her head. "That's never stopped you before," she replied knowingly.

I nodded. "This is true." The remainder of our drive was filled with heavy silence. I parked my car and walked Emily to my apartment. As I went to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water, I watched as Emily gravitated toward the pictures of us.

I smiled as I watched her. My Emily. The woman I had spent a large amount of my time loving and pining for. Here she was, materialized before my very eyes. My libido was pulsing, aching for me to just sweep her into my arms and take her right then and there. But my heart, it was singing a very different tune. I nearly choked on my water. How could I not love Emily? She was perfect. But something was off.

I couldn't shake Miley from me.

Armed with this knowledge, I set down my glass as I closed the distance between Emily and I. She was staring at a candid photo of her and I. I smiled at the memory. It was before that last night overseas had changed us. We were young, and carefree, and I was so in love with her.

Suddenly, Emily turned to me and pressed her lips against mine. For a few brief moments, I surrendered to the contact. Kissing Emily still sparked a small flame of desire inside of me, but my heart couldn't help but set alarms that this was wrong. I brought my hands to the sides of her face and pulled her gently away from me. My eyes stared into hers, and she must've read me. She immediately backed away. "Oh, Lils, I'm so sorry."

I smiled. "No, Emily, it's okay." I caressed her cheek with my thumb, my hands still on the sides of her face. "I love you, I do."

Emily smiled weakly. "But it's been too long, hasn't it?" She shook off my touch and went around me to my leather couch, sinking into the soft material. "Well, I feel like a giant ass."

I let out a small laugh. "Look, it's not that. I spent the better part of the past seven years loving you, and I probably always will." Emily looked up at me, forlorn.

"But?"

"But...I think I'm in love with Miley." I was just as surprised at those words as Emily was. "Wow."

Emily laughed a little, beckoning me to sit next to her. "Wow is right. When did this happen? I mean, it was pretty obvious to me she was into you, by the way she basically shot laser death beams from her eyes at me."

I shook my head, still reeling from my admission. "I don't know. But I think you're wrong. There's no way she feels that way for me. But...she just makes me feel...I want...I can't even put words to it..."

Emily smiled, stroking my hair. "It must really be love then, huh?" She turned her head away. "That's okay, I understand." For a moment I thought I had lost Emily to her thoughts, but then she looked back to me. "You know, her name is an anagram of mine. But, alphabetically, I come first."

I let out a loud laugh, striking Emily on her thigh. "And that, Walker, is where the similarities begin and end."

Hours later, after Emily and I had filled each other in on our lives, I took her to her motel. She said a brief goodbye, promising this time to keep in constant touch. When I arrived at the hotel, there was a rigorous bout of security making the rounds. Most recognized me, but I had to flash my badge to a few of them. I was relieved at the thoroughness that had gone on in my absence. It allowed me a fraction of less stress.

I swiped my pass card and entered the hotel room. I was greeted with the sounds of what I could only faintly recognize as Dashboard Confessional. The second the door clicked closed behind me, the music abruptly stopped. I suddenly felt awkward and bared. Miley came out from her bedroom, I felt my jaw drop. She was wearing what could barely constitute as fabric over her body. My eyes raked her from top to bottom.

I inwardly berated myself to my unabashed eye-fucking I just did. "Miley?" I asked, taking timid steps forward. "Are you okay?"

"How's Emily?" Miley asked, her voice thick and husky.

I began to feel extremely ill at ease. This was not Miley. This was not the Miley I had grown to ...grown to love, since meeting her. "She's fine," I replied uneasily. "How are you?" I asked again.

Miley smiled, letting out a little giggle. "I feel great!" She took a small step toward me. "Considering we were just tied up and nearly killed...but I mean, nothing happened because Emily was there to save us. She's so great." Miley ceased smiling, her eyes clouding. "It's no wonder you love her."

My eyes narrowed. "Miley, there's nothing going on between Emily and I," I said slowly. I wasn't lying, nothing had officially happened between us, save for that quick kiss at the station, and in my home. We had pretty much put our romance to rest back at the apartment.

Miley snorted, taking another predatory step toward me. I didn't move. "You love her," Miley repeated. "You love her," she repeated to herself, almost disgustedly. "You want...her."

I sighed. I didn't understand why Miley was giving me such a hard time. "You're not being very fair."

"Fair?" Miley parroted, looking flabbergasted. "Nothing about this is fair!" she yelled, balling her fists at her sides. She took a few moments to regulate her breathing, and seemed to sober from her anger. "I thought you were going to be different. But you're all the same," she said, her eyes traveling up to mine. "Leave."

I smiled at the ludicrousness of her request. "I can't do that."

Miley rolled her eyes. "Right. You're bound by duty to stay here and protect and serve and all that other bullshit." Her eyes narrowed in my direction. "Fuck you, Lilly. Fuck you." Her eyes began to brim with tears. My heart felt like it was being pulverized inside my chest.

"Miley," I said, taking a step forward. Miley took an equal step backward.

"Don't touch me," she hissed at me. Her eyes locked with mine, and I saw the desperation deep within her hues. "Don't touch me..not after you spent the last three hours touching _her._"

My eyes widened in surprise. "I .." I stopped for a moment. No, no, I wasn't going to quell Miley's fears. I wanted to know first. "Are you jealous?"

Miley seemed surprised by my boldness, and her eyes focused on mine again. "What?"

I smirked. "You heard me. Are you jealous? Are you jealous that I spent the last three hours with Emily?"

Her anger was put aside for the moment as she tried to figure me out. "It doesn't matter. You're going to leave anyway. You can do what you want."

"That's not an answer," I said, taking another step toward her. Miley's backside was met with the desk in the room, and I smiled. "Are you jealous?"

I saw Miley's eyes brim with tears. "Fuck...you," she spat out slowly. I finally took another step forward, effectively pinning her against the desk. "...Not fair."

"It's not fair," I replied, shaking my head. "It's not fair that I had to tell her that I couldn't be with her." Miley looked up from the ground. I swiped a tear with my finger, then held her chin between my thumb and forefinger. "Because I love you."

Miley's breath caught in her throat, but by the look in her eyes, she wasn't entirely convinced. "So why were you gone for hours?" Miley asked in a whisper.

A soft laugh escaped my lips as I ran my fingers through her unruly locks. "We were catching up. I told her all about you. And she convinced me, to come here, and tell you how I felt. Her and I know how precious time is, and how foolish it is to waste it."

Miley sucked in her lower lip. "Do I have to thank her?"

I shook my head. "No, it's fine."

"Good." I used my free hand to grasp her waist, and my other hand to pull her lips to mine. I had fantasized about those lips, but nothing came close to feeling the real thing against mine. Her lips were so soft and unrelenting. I parted them with my tongue, gently probing the inside of her mouth. I heard, and felt, her moan against me and I tightened my grip on her hip involuntarily.

I broke the kiss, watching as Miley's eyes fluttered open. All the blood had rushed to her lips, making them full and inviting. And her eyes, well, I had never seen anything so beautiful. "Why'd you stop?" Miley asked innocently.

I laughed, giving her another quick kiss. "One thing will inevitably lead to another, Miles, and I don't want that. Not here, not like this, okay?" It took all my self-control not to take her on the desk, but I knew that in some random hotel room is not where I wanted our first time. I wanted it to be slow, to be romantic. We did have the luxury of time, and I wanted to revel in it.

Miley nodded, then gave a quick glance above my head. "Um, we might want to get rid of those cameras now." I grinned, leaning in for another mind-blowing kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I own nada.

**Author's Note: Thanks again to all who reviewed. Lol, and to those who said "finally" it didn't take THAT long, geez! Besides, any good hook-up is worth waiting for. Now, here's the next chapter. By all means, review if you have any thoughts you'd like to share. It makes my day to read them. :)**

**Also - I don't want this story to be rushed, but I did push it along a little in this chapter. I'm really trying to get the whole story out before I go back to class because, let's face it, physics takes no prisoners. Which, consequently, will leave me no time to write. But if it's not finished in time, I promise to continue with earnest effort until it is.**

he next two weeks flew by rather rapidly. Miley wrapped up her tour in Phoenix, Arizona, and came back to Malibu to set up house in one of the palatial estates the Stewart family owned. I had come to practically live there, though on my guard, because even though Miley was an adult, her father still made unannounced visits.

"You were right, the chocolate was a good idea," I said, licking a small band of chocolate syrup from the side of Miley's face. We had been attempting to watch _The Little Mermaid _but got thoroughly distracted. I reached over and set her ice cream down onto the coffee table, taking her head in mine and pinning it above her head on her overstuffed couch. I kissed my way from her temple to her jawline, stopping only briefly to nibble at her earlobe.

Miley moaned my name, using her free hand to curl her fingers into my hair. "Lilly, Lilly," she chanted, in a vain attempt to get me to stop. I continued. "My dad might come here," Miley whispered.

I smirked. "If he does, I'm not stopping this time. The guy needs to learn that you're a grown woman." I pushed off Miley's orange peasant top, nestling myself in her cleavage. We hadn't been together very long, but when I placed my head on her sternum, and felt her heart beating wildly due to my ministrations, I couldn't help but become ballooned with joy.

"Lilly," Miley asked softly. I traced little circles along her abdomen, and looked up at her. "Do you want me to tell my father about us?"

I kept my gaze level as I considered Miley's question. Yes, I did want Mr. Stewart to know, because it would allow us more alone time, and for us to be just a tiny bit freer around him. But from the uncertainty in her eyes, I was sure she was not ready for that step. And I was not about to force her hand. "Yes, I do, but not if it's going to make you uncomfortable. Coming out is a slow process for most people."

"What about you?" Miley asked, canting her head to the side. "Does your family know?"

I sighed. I knew about Miley's family. Her father was a former country music star-turned-manager of his daughter's career. Her mother had passed away when Miley was rather young, just after she had become a success. Jackson was a troublemaker, always in debt with a bookie or a gang. He had a lot of connections, Miley had explained, but none of them good. It was one of the reasons she barely spoke to him. And after recently, she had refused to call him all together. But my family.

"Well," I began, "my mother was a workaholic since the day she was born. I swear she probably popped out of Nana's cooch with a briefcase and a cell phone." Miley laughed, and it made me smile. I loved being able to make her laugh. "My father was more relaxed, less of a disciplinarian than my mother, even though he had been the Marine."

"So the Marine thing is a Truscott family tradition?"

"Oh totally. Since the first Truscott's got here on the Mayflower." Miley looked at me suspiciously. "This is what I'm told. When the Mayflower stopped in Cornwall to let out water or something, the Truscott clan snuck aboard and helped navigate the ship." I rolled my eyes. "In any case, we're a proud American bunch. Truscotts were part of the Continental Marines, the very first Marines here in the States. And ever since, every man in the Truscott blood line as served his country. ...Then came me."

Miley chuckled. "I guess they were hoping for a boy?"

"Yes, a strapping young lad to fill the shoes of my dad, Les Truscott. The L goes all the way back, too. Every male in the family has an 'L."

"But so do you," Miley pointed out. I raised my eyebrow. "I mean, your parents couldn't have known you'd be the only kid. So why the L for you, too?"

"Ah, see, my mother did not want children. She told my father, 'We will have one child. If it's a boy, good for you. If it's a girl, suck it up.' True to her word, she had her tubes tied right after I was born. No more 'Truscotts' for my dad. Luckily I have an Uncle Larry who's got a son, Lloyd. In any case, my father practically shoved Marine propaganda down my throat from the day I could walk. So I grew up knowing what I would do, but also certain I was a lesbian. Not quite the proud, daring Marine my father was hoping for. I tried being straight, i.e. I dated your brother." Miley let out a loud belching noise. "How lady-like," I ribbed. "Anyway, that didn't work so I just stayed in the closet all through my deployments."

"And now? I mean, they'd have to be proud of you anyway. You won that Medal, and I googled that, and that's the hardest Medal to achieve."

I laughed, endeared by Miley's research. "They're very proud of me. And I don't want to tarnish that by revealing to them that I'm gay. They don't care if I marry because I won't be carrying on the Truscott name. That lovely burden gets placed on my cousin Larry."

"They have no idea?" Miley asked in disbelief.

I shrugged. "I haven't really seen them in years, anyway. The thought of knowing I'd be disowned, despite my honor, because of who I choose to love really puts a rift in my relationship with them." I grinned, darting my tongue out to sweep the upper swell of Miley's breast, eliciting a low moan from my beautiful girlfriend. "I mean, they'd go apeshit if they knew how much it turns me on to hear you moan like that." Miley chuckled, pulling me up gently by the hair to capture her lips in a kiss.

Our kiss became more desperate, and hungrier as time went on. Miley sat up, forcing me into straddling her lap. I happily obliged, never breaking contact with her lips. I slowly trailed my fingers around her sides to the clasp of her bra. I deftly unhooked the garment, and Miley shrugged it onto the floor. I eagerly drank in her beautiful figure. I traced her sides with my hands, and just as I was reaching her breasts, the loud chirp of my cell phone cut the moment.

I let out what could only be described as a loud grunt and sighed. I looked to my cell phone, seeing Oliver's name light up on the screen. I took the phone and flipped it open. "You've got the worst timing in the world, Oken."

"About to get it on?" Oliver asked, the tease obvious in his tone. He began to make porn-movie noises into the receiver. "Sorry to be a mood-killer, but the Chief wants to know if you want to come back a few weeks early to help us on a case."

I groaned. "Nooooooo," I protested. Miley canted her head to the side again, and I shook my head. I'd tell her later. Shrugging, she began to undo the buttons of my shirt. She held my cell phone to my ear for a moment, shedding my shirt with her other hand. She handed my cell phone back to me, quickly undoing the clasp of my bra. Once again she held my cell phone to my ear so the bra would fall off with ease.

" --And he really figured you'd want to be on this, considering what happened," Oliver finished. I hadn't heard a word he said, and as I watched Miley predatorily stare at my bare chest, I couldn't seem to care less.

"Right, what happened," I repeated, watching as Miley pushed me down onto the other end of the couch. Her mouth began to work low, near my belly button, and she began her agonizing ascent.

"You're not listening, are you? What is Miley doing over there?" Oliver paused. "Gross, don't tell me. God, just...call me back when you're not actively having crazy monkey sex."

"Mhm, bye," I replied quickly, flipping the phone closed and throwing it across the room. I sat up, pulling Miley flush against me. We both gasped at the contact of bared skin against bared skin. In one movement I pulled Miley up by her thighs, and lifted us both into the air. She instinctively wrapped her legs around my waist, her lips never leaving mine.

There was a silent communication between us, and I slowly carried her up the stairs toward her bedroom. This was happening a lot sooner than I had expected, but I couldn't hold back any longer. My long-dormant lust for her was bubbling over the top, and I needed to have her, now.

--

My cell phone was buzzing and ringing loudly from downstairs. I reluctantly unraveled myself from Miley's bare, sleeping form and pulled on my jeans and LAPD sweatshirt. I jogged down the stairs to retrieve the offending electronic device before it woke Miley. "Truscott," I answered.

"Finally!" Oliver exclaimed. "I'm a mixture of impressed and annoyed."

I laughed. "Okay, then..thank you, and fuck you. What can I do for you, Oken?"

Oliver sighed. "We've got a big one. Someone sent an anonymous letter and video to the station saying that they abducted Jackson Stewart from his home a couple hours ago. You, you need to see this."

"Jackson Stewart? As in Miley's brother?" I asked, giving a glance to the stairs to make sure Miley wasn't listening. Oliver confirmed my fears. "Why? Did they say why?"

"We don't know. We're doing everything we can, but, Lilly," Oliver whispered, "we're stretched to the limits here. Nobody has your expertise. Not even Hodes."

I sighed. I had been looking forward to my vacation. Time to spend with Miley; we were going to plan a small vacation to an island. But my job beckoned to me. "Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you!" Oliver gushed, hanging up the phone. As soon as I turned around, I was greeted with a full-on, lip-smacking kiss from Miley. I could feel the warmth of her body through her robe, and I melted into her embrace.

She broke away from me, but held me close to her, her arms wrapped around my neck. "Who was that?"

"Oliver." I winced. "They need me on a case, Miles." I opened one eye to see Miley's reaction, and she was visibly angered.

"We were supposed to have time alone," Miley replied evenly. Her once loving gaze turned hard. "You're really going to go back to work?"

I let out a long sigh, and Miley detached herself from me. "I'm sorry, Miley. But it's...it's really important that I take this case."

"More important than me?" Miley asked. My face became pained. I didn't want her to do this, not now. "Is this how our lives are going to be? I get you in between hot new cases?"

I rolled my eyes. "That's not fair. By that logic, I should be mad at you, Miss Tours the World for Months On End. Am I supposed to just love you for the couple weeks you spend in California? Hope that there isn't some hot new club you have to be seen at in New York, or Miami?"

Miley's face began to turn a hot, angry red. "Fine! Then just go!"

I gritted my teeth, and felt my temper flare. "You're such a child, Miley! Quit being so stubborn! There's two of us in this relationship, you know. We both have to let each other do our jobs. What, are we going to hole up in a bungalo for months and have sex all day? I don't know about you, but I can't be that mindless."

Miley looked offended, and rightfully so. Immediately I had regretted phrasing my reply in such a way. Miley turned around, dismissing me with her hand. "Do what you want, Detective." I winced at her informal tone. I quietly slipped on my sneakers, grabbed my car keys, and slammed the door behind me on my way out.

I was still fuming when I tore into the station. Oliver's eyes turned to me from a small desk half the station was crowded around. "Lilly, hey," he greeted. I glanced at him, my eyes wild.

"I don't want to talk about it. Where's the video?" I asked curtly, and Oliver pointed at the desk. I shoved people aside and prompted one of the officers to play it from the beginning. I narrowed my eyes as I watched the screen. The background was completely white. There were three masked people, and one very distraught-looking Jackson tied to a chair, gagged. He looked like he had been badly beaten before the video was turned on.

_"Jackson Stewart owes us three million dollars. This is not a negotiation," the voice said, masked by a voice modulator. The man sounded like Darth Vader on steroids. "We will require three million dollars, in untraceable cash, to be brought to us to an address that we will provide you. Instructions are as follows: You will place the money in unmarked black duffel bags, counted and wrapped in thousands. When the money has been counted, Jackson will be released into your custody. Should any member of the law try to negotiate or renege on this deal, Jackson will be promptly terminated. Thank you for your cooperation."_

The video ended, and a few eyes turned to me. "What?" I asked harshly. "They're just hostage-takers." I blew off any indication that I was going to be taken by this new information. But in all honesty, I was shaken. "Did we get an address yet?" I inquired tiredly, looking to Chief Hodes.

He shook his head. For the first time, I saw Hodes look a little lost. "We have nothing to go on. We sent the letter to Trace, but they're not going to get anything. These men are professionals."

I rolled my eyes. "And they're counting on us to fuck this up. But I refuse to fail. So, we are going to analyze this video for any hint of a location. We're going to get in contact with everyone Jackson Stewart knows, and see who can remember anything about who he owes money to. No one speaks to the press," I glanced out at everyone, cold and unrelenting. I was not in the mood to deal with the press hounding my officers. "No one makes any statements. Should we receive the address, the plan will go as follows. I will go, alone, to the location. Back-up will surround the perimeter. Our mission is to retrieve Jackson Stewart safely, but taking into account the probability that we won't, I want these men taken into custody. Am I clear?"

Hodes looked at me, his feathers clearly ruffled. "So, you're the Chief now? Because I think the sign on that door," he pointed to his office, "says that I am. And we do what I say."

"Which is what?" I countered. "Stand around and stick our thumbs up our ass?" His eyes widened. "We're going to do this my way because I was inconvenienced because you," I glared at him, "couldn't handle this case." I paused, giving time for my words to sink in. "So we do this my way, or I go home."

Chief Hodes shook his head, stalking off toward his office. "Do what you want, Detective." Hodes retreated into his office, jerking his door closed behind him. I was slightly stunned. Was I really that unreasonable? That both Miley and Hodes just wanted me off their backs?

I looked around, and began to delegate responsibilities. I left the Stewart family untouched, knowing fully well that neither Robbie Ray nor Miley knew anything about Jackson's whereabouts. I had just been with Miley, and Robbie was about as clued-in as a deaf man listening to news radio. With an exasperated sigh, I sat down at the desk and began to take furious notes on the video.

A few hours later, my cell phone rang shrilly, breaking me out of my concentration. Without looking down at the ID, I flipped it open. "Truscott."

I heard a sigh, and knew immediately who it was. Miley. "I was calling to make sure you were okay. You haven't called in hours."

I became perplexed. Another call beeped in while I formed a response. _Private. _I shrugged, assuming it was some sort of solicitation. "We were fighting. I didn't think it was necessary."

"You could've at least called. Your job is dangerous enough as it is," Miley commented sadly.

I closed my eyes, trying to regain just enough patience to not snap at her. "Miley, this case is extremely delicate. I'm highly stressed, and I really don't want to argue with you. Please, just stay home, and I promise I'll be back as soon as I can and we'll talk, okay?"

"Fine." The curt reply was followed quickly by the final click of our conversation ending. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the infiltrating thoughts of our relationship. I had thought maybe being together would help ease the tension, but it's not as if we had changed who we were. She still was able to plant herself under my skin like no one else.

The cell phone buzzed once, indicating I had a voicemail. I entered my password to retrieve it, and my eyes widened. It was the voice from the video. _"45 Prospect." _Nothing else. He called me. How did he have my number? More than that, I thought, if I hadn't been arguing with Miley, I might have been able to trace the call.

"We have an address," I announced loudly. "The kidnapers have contacted my cell phone. I don't know how they got my number, but they left me a voicemail with the address. 45 Prospect Ave. That's roughly the area of the industrial park."

I doled out responsibilities, and formed my team. I was bugged, and ready to infiltrate the operation. The ride over to the industrial park was silent in our van, all of my officers wrought with tension. Oliver was clearly stricken, and he placed his hand on my knee.

"You don't have to do this," he whispered. "We could just as easily send in someone else as a decoy."

I rolled my eyes, patting his hand. "I can handle this, Ollie. I promise." Off his worried stare, I smiled. "Look, if anything happens, just tell my parents I love them, and tell Miley..." I sighed. If something happened to me, we were on such bad terms. "Tell Miley I love her and that I'm sorry. And that she was right."

Oliver looked confused, but I just nodded, staring away from my friend's intense glare. This would definitely work. Barring any really unforseen circumstances, the bait and switch would work.

We came upon the industrial park, and the teams spread out. Once all teams were in position, I nodded. I began the short trek from the van to the building labeled "45". It was an old shipping warehouse, just on one of the docks. I quietly entered, two black duffel bags in my hands.

I could faintly make out figures through the dark, musty building. There were only a few, dirty windows near the ceiling, not allowing much light, or air circulation, though the room. I dropped the bags at my feet, preparing to make my statement. But then I heard the voice.

"I'm glad you came," came the greeting. It was him. My mind flashed back to the hot, damp room in Afghanistan. The same man who grabbed my Emily and dragged her off to be held prisoner. The same man who had ruined my life years ago.

"Good to see you again, Corporal Truscott."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: I am SO sorry for the obscenely long delay. School has taken over my life, big time. Physics waits for no one. Everyone here is losing their shit over the hadron thing. For real. People have posters. Anyway, here it is, and it is dedicated to Lone Tube Sock, who finally updated The Bet. And reading the newest chapter fueled my creativity and forced out this chapter that I have struggled with. So thank you, LTS, and I will try my best to put out an update a little faster. Possibly with the speed of a colliding proton and some kinetic energy.**

"Again?" I asked, playing stupid. I clenched the duffel bags in my hands. "I don't think I know you."

The man cackled, and an involuntary shudder went through me. "Of course you do, Corporal Truscott. If it weren't for me, you'd probably be back on deployment. You couldn't handle my men and I, so they had to send you back. They even gave you medals. But we both know what really happened." His condescending stare made me want to whip out my gun and waste him right there, but I had a duty to perform.

"Do we?" I asked, taking a bold step forward. "Because the way I remember it, I took out most of your comrades, and you only took one of mine. And you didn't even have the balls to kill her. But I killed your friends. One by one." I smirked.

I heard a slight noise behind me, and I dropped my bags. I ducked a swing coming my way, and grabbed the man's arm, wrenching it behind him. I removed my weapon from its holster, cocked it, and aimed it at his head. I had applied a silencer without informing the police. I didn't want them storming it at the first notion of gunfire. "Well done, Corporal."

I rolled my eyes. "Now, let Mr. Stewart go, or I'll kill this motherfucker." My request was simple enough. The man I had in my custody didn't even try to get away. He was eerily calm.

"Corporal Truscott, I'm Qasim Abdel." Off my unimpressed stare, he pressed on. "I have hundreds of thousands of men just like the man you're holding now. If you think he's worth three million dollars, you're incredibly stupid." He motioned to the man I had captured casually. "Kill him."

I couldn't tell if he was bluffing or not. In my mind, I assumed he figured as a woman, I wouldn't have it in my heart to stare a man in the eyes and take his life. "Where's Jackson?" I asked, trying to see in the darkness. Suddenly a small amount of light came on, and I could see him. He was tied to a chair, his head down. Even if that position, I could tell he was covered in injuries. "Let him go."

Qasim laughed, taking a large Glock from his pants and aiming it directly at Jackson's temple. "Is this the game you wanted to play, little girl? Eye for an eye? Typical American," he scoffed.

"Oh," I laughed, shaking my head. "Sir, I'm far from typical." That said, I quickly shot the man I was holding. A small amount of gun residue got onto my shirt, and more blood splatter than I would ever like to see again. With a quickness that only a Marine could possess, I wasted the two other guards.

I aimed my gun at Qasim's head, watching as he took the safety off his gun and cocked it backwards. "Shoot me, and I shoot him." He seemed far less confident now that I had slain his protective goons. I kept my aim steady, my eyes narrowed in his direction. "You still don't get it, do you?" I stood silent, my gaze calm. "This isn't about this man," he said, shaking his gun at Jackson. "This is about you. I've wanted to talk to you for a very long time."

"Most people do that by phone, but I guess for someone who couldn't even kill a woman, I couldn't expect anything less than this unprofessional, unskilled debacle you call a kidnapping." I knew I was taking a gamble on Jackson's life, but with three of these men already dead, I had nothing to lose.

Qasim shrugged. "He was not the target, Corporal. You were." I must've looked surprised, in spite of my attempts to stay focused, because he grinned. "That's right. You think we were not aware of your 'heroic actions' back in Afghanistan? You murdered nearly all of my men, some of who were my brothers and in-laws, cousins and uncles. Then your team came back and almost finished them off. But we escaped with your friend. Only to hear, years later, that this wretched country awarded you for your service," he said disgustedly. "Only in America is someone rewarded for mass murder."

I canted my head to the side. "Oh really? Coming from the man whose culture believes in a wondrous afterlife for suicide bombers? For men who take the lives of children, women, and the elderly? Who kill without regard toward the consequences? Who are too cowardly to even live, so they take themselves as well?" I gritted my teeth. "Had I done anything wrong, I would've at least had the honor to defend myself. But there's nothing wrong with taking out a few ignorant, deadly men bent on destruction."

Qasim closed his eyes a moment. "You swear an oath to defend your country. We do the same."

"Terrorism is not patriotism," I replied plainly.

Qasim shook his head. "You call it terrorism, we call it defense. And what happened to your lofty diplomacy dreams, American? Nothing. No word, only force. Not every citizen of this country played a part in 9/11, Corporal." Qasim's hands tightened on his gun. "But you and your President have taken quite a liberty with your information and have now stayed as unwelcome guests in my country." He smiled. "But no longer."

"We're there to destroy any terrorist cell. Had your government not had its tail between its legs regarding Al Qaeda and the Taliban, we wouldn't have had to come in there and clean up the mess." What was I defending? My honor? My country's honor? My President's honor?

Qasim laughed. "Oh, I'm sure you're intentions were noble," he replied condescendingly. "It had little to do with our proximity to Iraq and Iran, or your president's precious oil commodities in the countries we touch." He paused, waiting for me to answer. I didn't. I couldn't. "While you may be a hero here in America, you are the enemy of Afghanistan. You are the enemy of the Abdul family. And you will pay for what you've done."

I rolled my eyes at his intensity. "I doubt that." Before I could say anything more, I was struck, hard, on the back of the head and promptly fell flat onto my chest. I rolled over, trying to see my attacker. I heard a gunshot, and I got in a few swings at my attacker before a cloth was held over my mouth. _Chloroform_, I thought, _fuckers_ before my eyes began to flutter. I heard a lot of gunfire. Suddenly, there was only darkness.

I awoke several hours later, my chin against my chest. The room was spinning, and I squeezed my eyes shut to try and gain my equilibrium. When I opened them, I was greeted by a hard punch to my cheek. I recoiled, spitting blood onto the floor. Before I could think, blow after blow was rained on me. Whoever was hitting me was definitely a bit stronger than me.

There was a pause in the strikes, and I coughed up a bit of blood at my feet. I tried to move, but I was suddenly aware of the hard metal chain around my wrists. I pulled them, but the chain was just short enough to allow me to move, but not to stand or go farther than about two feet in any direction. "Fuck," I said finally, just trying to make sure my voice still worked.

"You've got a mouth on you, huh?" one of my captors asked, kicking his foot hard into my side. I fell onto my hip, wincing hard. Every part of me felt like it was on fire. The man grabbed my jaw, yanking it toward him. "Such a pretty mouth, too."

"Go..fuck...yourself..." I managed, wrenching my face from his grip. The man swung his fist at me, knocking me onto my back. I couldn't recognize anyone, or the room I was in. It was cold, and definitely reeked of mold. There was a small pitter-patter of feet, presumably rats, that I could hear in the distance.

"The boy is still alive," I heard one of the men mumble. "What should we do with him?"

The man who had been beating me was busy tending to his raw knuckles. "I don't care," he said dismissively. "We have what we wanted."

The men left the room, and all I could hear was the deep rumbling of a man's voice. "Bring them in," I heard, and I saw three large men escorted two smaller people into the room with me. I heard a loud gasp.

"Lillian," the voice said sadly, and I tried to focus my vision enough to see. It was my parents. I could hear my father swearing at his captors. Had my face not been so covered in cuts, I might've smiled at his audacity.

"Brutes," I heard him say. But he didn't say anything more. My father was an ex-Marine too. He knew better than to speak and somehow give away information.

Qasim walked in, wearing a sharp white dress shirt and business slacks. He grinned at me, then at my parents. "I see the family resemblance." He crouched down next to me. "Not so much fun when your family is in danger, is it?"

"My family has done nothing wrong," I croaked, glaring at him. "Let them go."

Qasim laughed, shaking his head. "Who would you rather we bring here? Lance Corporal Walker?" I shot him a glare. "Oh, I believe I touched a nerve. Alas, Walker couldn't be found when we tried. But for you to truly feel what we felt, we knew we had to bring your family in here." Qasim stood. "So you can watch them die."

I heard my mother whimper and my dad whisper something, probably in consolation, to her. "Please," I said, looking down at the ground. "Please let them go."

The room filled with laughter, and Qasim came back down crouch in front of me. He lifted my chin. "Do it again. Beg like an animal again, Truscott."

I stared at him, my eyes level with his. "Please let them go." If I was going to die here, even if it meant destroying my pride, I was going to get my parents out.

"How sweet. But you see, they're just the beginning. We have another surprise for you." Qasim let go of my face and smirked. "You see, we know more about you than you probably think." He walked around until he was behind me. "We know more about you than your parents do."

I froze. He must've saw me tense because he chuckled. My father was seething. I watched him as his veins began to appear. He was getting angrier by the moment. "You don't know a goddamn thing about us, you filthy bastard."

"Les," my mother chastised.

"Yes, Les, I'd keep your mouth closed unless you want to watch your wife die," Qasim threatened, and his goons tightened their hold on my father. "Now, Truscott, I was thinking to myself, what would be my grand finale? Killing your parents will hurt you, yes. But you will move on. We all do." He paused. "However I was sure I could find someone that might even hurt you more." My body begin to slightly tremble in anger. "Miley."

My mother looked baffled. "Miley? That pop tart you were guarding who got you in that mess?" My mother had called me once in between mine and Miley's kidnap and the present time to tell me how much she detested Hannah Montana, aka Miley. Wasn't the right time to tell her we were dating.

"Oh, Mrs. Truscott, your daughter has a lot she hasn't told you, doesn't she?" Qasim gave me a swift kick to my side. "Don't you, Corporal?" I groaned and squirmed, trying to get rid of the throbbing pain. "Your daughter has been sleeping with her charge," Qasim revealed. My mother looked appropriately horrified. My father displayed no reaction. I closed my eyes. "I guess only Marines go above and beyond the call of duty. Oh, and don't worry, she'll be here shortly and I'm sure she'll verify this information. Won't she, Corporal?" He paused, staring intently at me. "You love her, dont you?"

I shifted my weight until I was back on my knees and hung my head. But I didn't reply. I didn't want them to have any more reason to bring Miley here, or worse yet, to kill her. Wherever she was, I hope she was okay.

--

But Miley was not okay. In fact, Miley was throwing quite a tantrum inside her beach house. Emily had arrived about an hour earlier to take Miley into protection. However, the stubborn brunette was too busy freaking out about Lilly's kidnapping to comply.

"I can't believe this! Why would she go in there alone? What the fuck is wrong with her?" Miley kept repeating, before finally sitting on the couch, burying her head in her hands. "I was so mean to her," Miley managed through tears. "So mean."

Emily rolled her eyes and sat down to Miley. "Look, Miley, you're in a lot of danger being here. A lot of danger," Emily repeated. "And if they come to get you, you will be putting Lilly in more danger." Miley finally looked up. "You need to do this for her."

"Is this Jackson's fault?" Miley looked up at Emily, her face full of rage. "Is he the reason she's in there?"

Emily shook her head. "On paper, yes. But we have good reason to believe that Lilly was the target." Emily's face darkened. "They even have her parents."

Miley stood, and for the first time since Emily had arrived, was not shrieking like a banshee. "Then let's go get her."

Emily looked up, surprised. She stood, placing her hand on Miley's shoulder. "You can't come with us in there. It's a torturous holding facility filled to the brim with angry, armed men." Miley looked unimpressed. "Guns. Many guns. For which to kill you with."

Miley shot Emily a glare. "Okay, Emily, let me put it this way for you. Either I go in there alone, or I go with you. Which would you prefer?"

Emily rolled her eyes. "Dear Lord you're stubborn." Emily escorted Miley out of her house, ignoring Miley's questions of where they were going. The two filed into the FBI van, and headed off toward the facility they had discovered was the Abdul family hideout. Emily was trying to push out thoughts, but she kept coming back to Miley. This is the woman her first real love abandoned her for. This tempestuous, beautiful, spoiled woman. But suddenly, Emily was drawn to Miley's eyes. And for the first time that day, she saw how deeply sad Miley was. Her eyes were vacant, but it was clear she was deeply, deeply upset about the situation. In spite of her better judgment, Emily reached out her free hand and patted Miley's thigh.

"She's going to be okay, Miley. Lilly is, hands-down, the most amazing person I've ever known. And without a doubt the bravest --"

"Stop." Miley said, her voice free of emotion. "Just...just stop."

Once they arrived, after Emily briefed her fellow agents, she turned to Miley. "You, my stubborn tagalong, have the honor of staying inside the van with this walkie-talkie." Emily handed Miley the large walkie-talkie and sighed. "I will communicate with you on what's happening inside, but you have to stay inside this van at all times. Am I understood?"

Miley rolled her eyes, snatching the walkie-talkie. "Whatever." Miley clutched the walkie-talkie between her hands as the agents deftly exited the van, locking her securely inside. Her head bowed down and touched the top of the walkie-talkie. Before she could even stop herself, she felt her lips moving. A prayer. Nothing short of a God-given miracle was going to help her Lilly this time.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Look how quickly I did that! Muahahaha. I forsook homework to do this because I was really on a roll with this one. I think there will be only one more chapter and then this story will be finished. I hope you all like it! :)**

I stared up at my captor, hoping that somehow, the hatred I felt boiling through my veins would somehow manage to shoot out through my eyes. For my silence I was greeted with a strong punch to my cheek. "Tell them. Tell your parents how you've dishonored them." I stayed silent. I couldn't. I wouldn't dishonor my parents. "TELL THEM," the man screamed, grabbing the back of my neck and forcing me to look at them.

As I looked at my mother, suddenly her whole demeanor changed. My father was still stone-faced, but as I watched his eyes, I could see him calculating something. As a talented Marine, my father was constantly aware of his surroundings. It made sneaking out of the house in my teenaged years incredibly difficult. I watched him closer. He was taking stock of the weapons in the room. Thirteen, I wanted to say out loud. I had already done it. Thirteen weapons, five men. The room was probably about fourteen square feet. The ceilings were unusually high.

My mother looked at me and shook her head. "Lillian," I looked up at her, trying to see through what was beginning to become an awful haze. "Lillian, your father and I don't care who you love. As long as they love you, we love you."

She was lying. If these men had spent twenty years with my mother, they would have known it, too. But I knew what she was doing. Reverse psychology was probably invented by a mother. If she accepted me, then she completely defused their plan. My father nodded in agreement. "I love her. I love Miley. I'm in love with her." It felt good to say those words. I had only wished Miley would know, somehow, that I loved her. I cast my eyes down, not in shame, but in regret of having my last words with her be so harsh.

Qasim looked toward my parents, who were simply staring at him. "You have nothing to say to this? Your daughter is a tarnish on the great reputation of your family, and you are content with this?"

"What does it matter?" my father asked, canting his head to the side. "You're going to kill us either way."

Qasim laughed, and an involuntary shudder ran through my body. "That's correct, Mr. Truscott."

"That's Captain Truscott, you asshole," my father said, reaching back to jab his captor in the solar plexus with deadly accuracy. The man lost his breath and fell to the floor. The other three captors brandished their weapons, aimed directly at my father's head. "GO, Heather," my father ordered. My mother nodded and ducked out of the room. I silently prayed she'd find safety.

I watched as my father struggled with the three men. Qasim stood next to me, and I leaned over and bit down on his thigh, hard. So much so, that he fell onto his knees in pain. "You bitch!" he yelled. Just as he was about to reach around for his weapon, I braced myself and head-butted him hard in the temple. He keeled over like timber and fell onto his side.

Now, however, I was totally helpless. All I could do was watch my father, who still possessed the skill of a Marine, was getting on in years now. After struggling for the upper hand, my father finally wrenched a gun away from one of the men and wasted no time in killing all three in rapid succession.

"I think the keys are on him," I said, motioning with my head to Qasim's sleeping form.

My dad shook his head. "No time. I hear gunfire down the hall. Don't move." I obeyed his command and was still, and my father shot the links of my chains apart. The metal was still clamped around my wrists and feet, but at least now I could get up and move. My father extended his arm to me. "Get up, Truscott."

I couldn't help but feel a small surge of pride as I pulled myself up. I bent down and took Qasim's gun from him. Then I mustered some adrenaline and kicked him as hard as I could in the groin. "Son of a bitch."

"No time for that," my father ordered, rushing me out of the room. "We have to find your mother and get the hell out of here." We took off down a hallway. Every part of my body burned in pain, but my adrenaline had finally kicked in and the pain was somewhat bearable.

As we rounded a hallway, and got closer to the sounds of gunfire, we heard rumbling above us. We both immediately stopped and pointed out guns upward. Someone was inside the ventilation system above us. In tandem we followed the noise until it stopped. There was a mumble, and suddenly the ceiling came crashing down.

A woman, on all fours, coughed and brushed herself off, her backside facing us. We kept our guns on her until the dust cleared and we heard an exasperated "Oh for Heaven's sake."

"Mom?" I asked, lowering my gun.

"Heather?" My father asked, and my mother whirled around. My father lowered his gun and began to gesture emphatically with his weapon. "What in the name of all that is holy were you doing in the vents?!"

"I thought it was a safe place!" my mother replied shrilly, indignantly crossing her arms. "I didn't think it would collapse on me. Some shoddy worksmanship, this place is. And don't you point that gun at me, Lester Truscott."

My father grabbed her by the forearm and led her forward, and we sandwiched her between us. Finally, we came upon a large warehouse where all the gunfire was had originated, but on a much lesser scale. As I looked down from our vantage point, I saw the agents gunning down the remaining men inside. _Emily, _I thought with a smile.

Gunfire became louder in my ears when I suddenly realized my father was shooting men sniper-style from above. Eventually, the gunfire ceased and I saw the agents begin to form into a specific group. "About fucking time," I yelled down to the agents. My mother tut-tutted me under her breath.

"Lillian Truscott, do not use such language," she chastised. I rolled my eyes and descended the stairs painfully. As I got to the main floor I saw Emily emerge and immediately remove her protective helmet.

"Oh my God, Lilly," Emily breathed as she inspected my vast injuries. "Is anything broken?" Emily began to gently assess my injuries, and I gave a quick glance up to my parents. My father, particularly, seemed almost embarrassed by the gentle, yet obviously intimate way Emily was inspecting me.

I backed off from her, and tried to hide from the obvious hurt in her eyes. "I'm going to be okay. I think I might have a concussion, though. My ankle is definitely at least sprained, and well, I'm gonna look like a map of the villages in India, but other than that, I think I'm okay." My parents knowing I'm gay and dating the woman I was supposed to be protecting is one thing, but my father would never forgive me if he knew I had almost slept with a fellow Marine. A female Marine, at that.

Emily nodded and lifted her walkie-talkie from her belt. "I know someone who would be very glad to hear that." My eyes widened. "She made me," Emily began to defend. "Really! She's got these powers of manipulation. She's like a snake charmer, I swear."

I laughed and snatched the walkie-talkie from Emily. "I know." One agent, Emily, my parents and I began to leave the facility. I held down the button. "Guess who?" I said, blinking my eyes hard to keep myself awake and coherent.

There was nothing but static on the other line. My eyebrows furrowed. Before I could speak again, a horrendously loud explosion echoed through the facility.

Everyone ran, and I jogged, outside. I heard Emily gasp loudly, and I made my way through the few bodies outside. A large black van, or what used to be a van, was completely engulfed in flames. Emily's mouth was hung open. As I looked to the horrified faces around me, I felt the lump in my throat begin to form.

"No, no, no," I repeated, ad nauseum. I looked to Emily. "Please...tell me...no..." I couldn't form words. I felt my knees suddenly become water and I fell to the ground. Sadness was quickly replaced by anger. I stood, I have no idea how, and began to march toward the van. "No, I won't let this happen. This will not happen." I felt arms circle mine and try to pull me back. I fought forward, but I was only greeted by another blast of fire from the van that knocked me, and what I assumed was Emily to the ground.

There was a bit of a commotion back by where my parents and a few agents were standing, so Emily and I made our way over.

It was Qasim. He had Miley. I immediately withdrew my weapon and aimed it at his head. "It seems we're at another stalemate, bitch," Qasim said, his gun's barrel pressing hard against Miley's temple. I heard her whimper in pain and nearly lost my mind.

I growled, loudly, and shook in anger. "Let her go."

Qasim laughed. "Oh, sure, Corporal Truscott, let me just surrender the only thing on this Earth you would die for." His expression turned gravely serious. "Drop your weapons or I'll kill this whore right here."

All of the agents kept their weapons level at him. I felt my mind begin to swim, and I had to struggle to keep myself awake. But I could see Miley, her face pale and eyes frantic in fear. I wanted to tell her everything was going to be okay. I wanted to hold her, and kiss her, and have her make me forget what the last few hours had been like. "Drop your weapons now," my father ordered, and everyone, including myself, did so.

"Good, thank you, Captain Truscott," Qasim replied, nodding his head. "Of course, you made the grave mistake of trusting a _terrorist._" He glared at me. "She will die, _Lilly, _because of you. I am going to blow her brains all over this ground because you are the reason my family suffers."

"Why?" I asked, my feeble voice betraying the confidence I was trying to portray. "Because you're not man enough to kill me?"

Qasim tightened his hold on Miley and forced her onto her knees. I felt Emily grab my forearm. I was not in any condition to lunge forward, but she knew I would try. "Because this will hurt you the most. I could kill you, and your pain will end. But my pain and my family's pain will resonate. But if I murder her here, in front of your eyes, with your knowledge that you are to blame, I will die with a clear conscience. I have avenged my family." He cocked the gun.

A single gunshot was heard, and suddenly, Qasim fell onto his knees. He toppled forward, lifelessly, onto his chest. A large, blackish pool of blood began to collect by his face. Jackson stumbled forward, his gun still outstretched. "I don't think so. I think it's time I avenged mine." Jackson collapsed to the ground, heaving a heavy sigh. A few agents went to his side, and another went to ensure Qasim was dead. Miley rushed forward, encircling her arms around me.

Emily smiled, and turned to go to my parents, and I shot her a grateful look. Emily escorted them around the building to where the Malibu PD was still waiting with ambulances and officers. Miley cradled my face in her hands, wiping away some dried blood from around my eyes. "I thought I was never going to see you again."

I smirked. "But then you ...would've had the last word." My breathing became extremely labored, and the last thing I could remember was feeling Miley's arms around me as the world swirled into blackness.


End file.
